


Soak Up the Fame

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (Everyone in this fic is a consenting adult), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Age Difference, Albino Dave Strider, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, F/F, Film Director Dave Strider, Filming, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Rose Lalonde and Dave Strider are Siblings, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-05-19 05:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 99,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19350832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: Karkat Vantas has been a fan of indie film duo Dave Strider and Rose Lalonde for years. When he got a chance to work with them, he pounced. After auditioning for the role of the lead detective, in some sort of experimental noir film, he received news of his newfound employment with the film crew of his dreams. On top of that, it turns out many of his friends also managed to land various roles in the film. It's a wonderful start to the career of this bright-eyed, enthusiastic fan-and-actor, but he soon finds himself in some hot water.Aside from the fact that Dave Strider is nothing like he expected, it turns out that Karkat Vantas' admiration is more akin to a crush. His best friend is sleeping with the assistant director, and his other best friend has refused to take any stance on the matter. That's three train wrecks too many for a man just starting out in acting.





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> [trampling my other unfinished fics while letting my adhd run wild] YEEEHAAAAW!
> 
> i'm trying something new here. instead of the standard flirty wants-to-slam-karkat-the-second-they-meet dave, let's see what happens when he's more wary about it. also, i'm kinda playing with characterization. dave's more canon when he's in front of the cameras, but he's got a shorter fuse when he's not being interviewed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look into the life of the StriLonde film company, through the eyes of an eager young troll.

**7 March 2011**  
**Home of Karkat Vantas**  
612 Alternia Rd.  
Landsend County

A young troll, with a passion for drama and acting, sits before a television. His eyes are glued to the screen, and his heart is pounding.

He is twelve years old, and he's disobeyed his father to stay up late, to watch the Oscars. He roots for one film, in particular, to win the award for Best Original Screenplay. _Age of Destruction_ is the debut of the film producing duo known as the StriLondes, comprised of a set of twins. The director, Dave Strider, already lost out for best director, but he handled it gracefully. When the winner was announced, he clapped, smiled, and offered an encouraging handshake. Now is the last chance for the film to win an award.

So, when the announcement comes, —when the presenter says that _Age of Destruction_ won—Karkat is breathless. He quietly cheers, hugging his pillow to his chest as he watches the duo approach the stage.

“Of course,” Rose says, smiling as she accepts her statuette, “I'm not the only one to congratulate for this production.” Long, elegant fingers brush mid-length golden hair from her face. “My brother, David, deserves a fair amount of praise, too.”

Dave laughs. It's a booming, pleasant sound, accompanied by a charismatic, goofy bow. “It ain't all me, either. Rose wrote the whole damn script. All that amazing dialogue? The knock-your-damn-socks-off moments? Those were all her!”

The two go back and forth for a few minutes, before triumphantly hoisting the award into the air, together.

In that moment, a young troll decides that he will be an actor.

* * *

**10 August 2013**  
**Grubland Restaurant**  
8302 Mason St.  
Landsend County

A young, but now slightly older, troll is summoned into the office of his family's Alternian cuisine restaurant. His father, with a grim look on his face, beckons him to the desk. When he speaks, his voice is hushed and serious. “Son,” he says, “You're a fan of that... That Strideman person, aren't you?”

“Strider?” asks Karkat, his brows furrowing. His father has always tried his best to keep up with his interests, and he's not going to nitpick the details. ‘Strideman’ is close enough. “Yeah. I love his shit. Why?”

His father slides his phone across the table. When Karkat eyes it, he nods, silently encouraging him to pick it up.

“Famed Young Director Hospitalized After Serious Crash,” declares a bold headline.

Karkat's heart drops into his stomach. Still, he reads the article; he needs to know what's happened.

“David Elizabeth Strider, age twenty, renowned for his work in the film industry, has been hospitalized following a serious automobile accident. Alongside his twin sister, he was among the youngest winners of the Academy Award for best screenplay, for their work on _Age of Destruction_ , in 2010. The actor and director, who often stood in for his own actors during dangerous stunt sequences, was driving to the set of his upcoming film, _Time Cops_ , when the accident occurred.

“Mr. Strider's car, a small, red sports model, was blindsided by a tractor trailer, the driver of which has been determined to have driven under the influence. He was immediately airlifted to Skaia Regional Medical Center, and is currently in critical condition. In a statement, released earlier by his coworker and sister, Rose Lalonde, it was noted that he sustained many serious injuries. ‘Unfortunately,’ Ms. Lalonde said, speaking to a crowd of concerned journalists and fans, ‘Dave has sustained several concerning injuries. As of this time, he is in a medically induced coma. We are unsure when, or if, he will reawaken. We thank everyone for their heartfelt messages, and for their outpouring of support.’”

When he finishes reading, Karkat sinks to the floor, heartbroken.

* * *

**7 December 2013**  
**Vermilion Fields High School**  
Drama room

A fourteen-year-old Karkat Vantas hunches over his phone, his heart pounding, as he reads a newly released report on the condition of his directorial idol, Dave Strider. His hands are shaking so much that he is forced to hand the phone to his good friend, Kanaya Maryam, to read.

The female troll reads the report in a distinct, careful voice. She speaks with conviction.

“The tight-lipped StriLonde organization has finally released a statement on the condition of the team's actor and director, Dave Strider. Early this morning, at 5:30, Rose Lalonde posted an update on the company's website. (A link to the full post may be found here.)

“‘My brother, Dave, has been awake for the past few weeks. We apologize sincerely for the lack of information, but we very much desire privacy during this trying time. All filming on the upcoming film has been cancelled,’ the post read. After thanking fans for their support, it continued, ‘His injuries are, as has been previously noted, severe. He has been in and out of consciousness, and has only recently been alert for more than a few hours at a time. He wants to let everyone know that he will return to his beloved work as soon as he can, but he will never again be able to perform at the same capacity that he once had.’

“While attempts have been made to inquire into the specifics of the strange words, no further information has been given.”

* * *

**3 March 2014**  
**Grubland Restaurant**  
8302 Mason St.  
Landsend County

The first good news Karkat hears from the StriLonde company comes in early spring of his sophomore year of high school. He sees a news article, and a photo of Dave is attached. The man sits in a hospital bed, with a wide grin spread across his face. As per usual, aviator style sunglasses hide his eyes. His light, platinum blond hair is well groomed.

He doesn't have time to read the article when it's first published, as he's rushing to class, but he reads it as soon as he can.

“David Elizabeth Strider, director of the Academy Award winning film, _Age of Destruction_ , is making a remarkable recovery. A statement, released on the StriLonde website, noted that he is up and moving. Though his sister, Rose Lalonde, notes that he has a long recovery ahead, he has spoken to reporters, and appears to be in good spirits.”

* * *

**11 January 2019**  
**Skaia University Campus**  
Downtown  
Skaia City

It's years later, long after Dave Strider's accident, and years since the public has seen anything but extremely limited and exclusive interviews with the man. He retains his personality, and his looks, but he's far more reclusive. Likewise, the StriLonde company grows more private. So, when a casting call from the film industry's foremost groundbreaker shows up on campus, Karkat takes notice.

He immediately and eagerly pulls a tab, which contains the information and dates for the auditions, from one of the many posters. He pockets it, sends a text to his father, and fills out his calendar, noting all of the details.


	2. Fine on the Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karkat Vantas finally meets his idol, only to find that things aren't quite as they seem. Who is this person, so far removed from the image in his head? How long will he be able to put up with this disparity?

**4 December 2019**  
**Skaia City**  
Central Hub District  
Day 1 of filming

The role of Detective Marseille, in the StriLonde production of _Study in Mononchrome_ , was perfect. The casting call seemed made for Karkat. A troll, of about eighteen to twenty years of age, with a non-athletic build, and below the height of five foot six. It was a dream come true, to work with the famed film duo, and his confirmation of the part was the best day of his life. In fact, he expects today to be a great day, too.

So, when the twenty-year-old troll arrives on set, he finds that he's more excited than he's been in years. He doesn't mind the early arrival time, nor does he care about having to wear a flimsy coat in the middle of the freezing cold of a Skaian winter. He's simply overjoyed to see his artistic inspiration. He waits, with the rest of the crew, on the street, outside of the film trailers, which are set up in the parking lot of the StriLonde studio.

Despite the presence of Kanaya's hand on his shoulder, to keep him calm, his heart pounds as the car arrives. It's bright, cherry red, with a hard top and polished chrome rims. It's not as sporty as the last car, a Ford Mustang, but it's still a respectable little thing. From what he's read, he knows the specifics: it's a retrofitted Sunbeam Rapier, an antique car. And, when it comes to a stop, he feels his legs grow weak.

Rose steps out first, smiling, cordially, at the gathered crowd. (Perhaps it's the nature of hiring a crew of college-age nobodies to make a film, but everyone is excited to set eyes on a pair of film legends.) Then, to Karkat's surprise, she circles to the passenger door. She opens it, her body blocking the view for a few moments, before stepping aside.

Dave Strider, clad in a black StriLonde branded sweatshirt, is in the passenger seat, now in full view. He waits, watching warily as Rose pulls something from the backseat. A plain, low-backed wheelchair emerges. Once it's out, he smoothly transitions into it, moving his legs with his hands. He tugs on a pair of fingerless black gloves, —leather, by the looks of it—before approaching the now-gawking crew. “Okay. You've all seen the show. Move.” He brushes past, elbowing Karkat on the way to his designated trailer.

From behind, Karkat hears Kanaya's voice. “Did you know anything about this?”

There's a pang of anxiety in Karkat's stomach. There's no semblance of the man he'd come to admire in this person. There's no charisma, no contagious excitement. Instead, there's a sort of quiet resentment. “No,” he mutters, “I didn't. I mean...”

A man, with wild black hair and a dorky, buck-toothed smile, interrupts. “John Egbert,” he introduces himself, firmly shaking Karkat's hand. “I'm the producer of the film. Dave's asked to see you in his trailer. You're the star, right? Mr. Vantas?” His words come too fast, with an almost unbearable amount of enthusiasm. He seems unaware of the director's apparent bad mood. And, when Karkat doesn't immediately start moving, he chuckles. “Keeping Dave waiting is a bad idea. C'mon.”

Karkat obeys. He follows, staying a few steps behind, until he reaches a trailer at the far side of the production site. A nondescript sign on the door gives away its occupant, “D. E. Strider.” John opens the door with one hand, and pats Karkat on the back with the other. He leans in, close enough to whisper a quick message of wisdom, “Good luck.” A gentle shove sends Karkat stumbling into the room, and the door immediately slams shut behind him.

Now, barely able to contain his nerves, Karkat approaches Dave. “Um... Mr. Strider, is it?” His mouth is dry. His hands are shaking. “I'm a huge fan.”

Dave looks up from his work. His brows are furrowed, and his tone is inexplicably flat, “Great. Nice to hear. You're Marseille, right?”

“My name is Karkat Vantas, actually. I auditioned for the role of—”

“Amazing. Shut up.” Dave wheels over, studies Karkat, and shakes his head. His left leg begins to tremble. Gently, at first, then, with enough force to slide him out of place. “Fuck.” He pushes himself up, back into a marginally normal sitting position, before speaking up again. “Look, no offense, but I'm not... I'm not really in the mood for much talk. Sorry. I... uh... It's... It's not really your fault. Sorry.” He lets forth a strangled groan and buries his face in his hands. “I'm doing it again. I'm being a massive douche. I...” He shakes his head, wincing as his neck turns a bit too far to the right. Then, with a sort of robotic abruptness, he offers his hand out. “I'm Dave Strider. I'm the... uh... I'm the... The director,” he says the word quickly, and keeps his head down. “I'm... I'm really sorry, uh... What's your name again?”

Karkat, frankly, is startled. There's no way this is the same person. How can it be? Still, he answers. “Karkat Vantas.” He shakes Dave's hand, noting the loose grip. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I... My head hurts.” Dave reaches into his pocket. He dumps a few pills into his shaking right hand, and downs them without water. He shudders. “I'm sorry. Really. I'm  _so_ damned sorry. I'm just a mess,” he laughs nervously, “It's nice to meet you. I really don't mean to be so short with everyone, it's just... I know no one really knows how bad the crash was, and I'm always worried no one will take me seriously, you know? You... probably don't. It's fine. You've read the script, right?” His sentences seem disconnected, his words are random. There's an air of frenetic energy about him, and it buzzes, like a swarm of angry wasps. “Of course you have, right?”

“Yeah.” Karkat finds himself whispering. He speaks up, again, louder, now, “Yeah. I read the script, Mr. Strider.”

“Please call me Dave. I don't... Too many people have called me Mr. Strider. I don't have a great relationship with that name. We've broken up, and I'm not looking back.” He moves about with ease, indicating that he's lived this life for years. (The more he thinks about it, the more Karkat sees signs of this reality. Interviews were never conducted publicly, and Dave was never shown below the waist after the accident.) “And don't be so formal with me. You're only, what? Seven years younger than me? Eight? It's not that big of a deal.”

“Okay.”

“Our first scene is fifty-three.” Dave flips through the pages of his script. “We're filming down the street, at the café. Not too much. I just want you to go with it, show me what you can do. I'll try not to rip you a new asshole. If I do, I'm sorry. I really don't mean to be so damned hard on people, but I guess I just... I want perfection. I want to show everyone they're wrong about me, about all that bullshit they tell me. I'm still perfectly capable of churning out amazing shit. I'm...” He coughs. “I'm sorry. I'm rambling. If you don't mind, on your way out, can you grab Rose? I'll need her to help me up the steps of the café. Location scouting isn't ever... We keep my condition a secret. So, please, I'm begging you, don't go Tweeting about this. I really don't like people knowing. It's not like I'm ashamed or whatever, it just really hurts my production value.”

“O-okay?” Karkat manages to sputter. He buries his hands in his pockets, and quickly retreats to Rose's room.

Of the duo, she's the more personable. She greets him with a warm smile and a cup of steaming hot chocolate. “Did Dave send you over? I must apologize for his demeanor. He's quite anxious about this film, so please excuse his ramblings. You mentioned in your application that you're a fan of our work, did you not?”

“Yeah,” Karkat says, briefly forgetting his encounter with the director of the film. “I love your work, really. It's fucking amazing. All my friends can't bear it, listening to me espouse streams of nothing but how much I love StriLonde productions.”

Rose chuckles. “I'm glad you like our stuff, then, Karkat. I'll help Dave, of course, I'm not sure why he feels the need to send every cast member to my trailer to remind me. We're not all quite as scatterbrained as he is.”

“Of course.”

“Go on ahead to the venue. We'll be right behind you.”

Karkat nods. Taking the hot chocolate with him, he departs, following his orders.

 

About an hour later, inside the café, Karkat wraps up his rehearsal of the fifty-third scene. He lowers his prop gun, and relaxes his muscles. He rolls his shoulders.

Dave, meanwhile, wheels in, from out of frame. “You're good, Karkat. You're pretty damned good, actually. I'm impressed. Have you worked in a film before?”

“No. This is my first.” In spite of himself, Karkat blushes. Grey cheeks flush a slight red, and he nervously taps his clawed fingers together. “Do you have anything you'd like me to change?”

“Your stance is a little rigid,” Dave speaks in a surprisingly gentle tone. “When you're fighting, you don't keep your feet so close together. It makes for a bad stance. See...” he wheels forward, and pushes against Karkat's thigh with a surprising amount of force. As Karkat staggers back, Dave continues, “I can push you over, and you'd be done for, right? Poof. Bam. You're absolutely fuckin’ chopped liver, now. You want at least shoulder width apart, with bent knees. Not too bent, but...” He pauses, and gestures to John.

The buck-toothed producer is grinning and demonstrating the pose. In place of a gun, he holds a rolled up copy of the script. “I'm on it, dude!”

Dave laughs. It's a pleasant sound, just like the videos, and it's more  _him_ than he has been. It's the Dave Karkat knows, the one that's presented to the world. “Thanks, Egbert! See, I want you to do that sort of stance. Marseille is an experienced guy, he wouldn't be fighting like a dope. You feel?”

“Yeah,” nods Karkat. “I'll try that.”

From Dave, there's a soft expression. It's not exactly a smile, but it's more welcoming than any of his previous statements. “Great! We'll roll the film, then.”

The camera comes to life, and the clapper board is produced.

Karkat takes the criticism to heart. He lowers his stance and spreads his feet apart. He speaks his lines, his voice filled with the conviction required of the scene. He never once stammers or forgets a word, and he carefully maintains his composure. Then, once he's done, he turns to Dave.

The man offers an approving nod.

The clapper board comes out again.

 

And, so it continues. For hours. Scenes are rehearsed and recorded, in rapid succession. When he isn't needed for an hour or more, Karkat returns to his trailer, doing his best to catch some sleep or to send a few texts to his father. When he is needed, but isn't in a scene, he bides his time by watching Dave.

The director moves about the set with speed, propelling through tight spaces by pushing off of closely spaced tables and chairs. Every three hours, an alarm on his phone goes off, and John leads him to the bathroom. During these times, filming stops. The fifteen minute breaks are occupied by mingling among the crew.

Karkat catches up with old high school friends. Sollux is working as a sound grip, and Kanaya is supervising costuming.

 

At 5:00 PM, filming wraps. Rose invites everyone to come back to the StriLonde estate, about an hour away, to celebrate the first day of filming. Cocktails, drinks, and food will be available.

Out of the corner of his eye, Karkat catches a glimpse of Dave. The man's demeanor has changed dramatically. He seems tired. His movements are slow and calculated, and his hair is soaked with sweat. Out of concern, he approaches. “You're not looking too fucking hot, Mr. —Dave,” he catches himself.

Dave offers a grimace. He leans back in his chair, allowing Rose to come behind him and take the handles. “I'm fuckin’ tired,” he breathes. “I've got one hell of a migraine, and my back feels like someone is trying to actively remove it from my fleshy, corporeal being. So, yeah, I'm not feeling so great.” When Rose begins to move him, he groans. “I really... Uh... Rose, stop for a second.”

Rose obeys. From her bag, she pulls a bottle of water, which she hands to Dave.

The man drinks eagerly before continuing, “Tell the others they've done some great work.”

“Why don't you tell them?” asks Karkat.

“I won't be at the party. I haven't been to one in years. Just tell them they did a great job, okay? Rose will, too, but I'd like them to know I think the same damn thing.” There's a flash of a weary smile. Then, Dave sighs. “Sorry, Rose. I owe you for today.” His eyes slide closed.

As the two filmmakers depart, Rose's response manages to reach Karkat's ears. “You say that every day, David.”

“I know that,” counters Dave.

Their discussion grows quieter with distance, until it's inaudible.

And, with little else to do, Karkat, too, departs. He clambers into Kanaya's car. “We're going to the party, right?”

“I don't see why not,” says his long-time friend. She grins, revealing a pair of sharply pointed canines. “Dave was... interesting.”

“Yeah,” Karkat frowns. “I guess you could say that. It's a little like saying you shot yourself in the locomotive appendage, then saying you sprained your fucking ankle, though.”

 

 **4 December 2019**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

Karkat’s costar is a brawny human with a stubble-covered face. He looks a bit like John, but his facial structure is leaner and more angular. His name is Jake English and, now, after two hours of drinking at the party, he’s laughing. “Chaps, I do say that Mr. Strider is one strange chap. Do you suppose he even likes any of us?”

Another cast member, an extra, grunts. He’s a lean, but muscular troll, with a pair of broken off horns and a wicked underbite. “He probably hates all of us!” he cackles.

Karkat stays quiet. There’s a churning sensation in his stomach. It’s not as if he knows Dave, not at all, but he isn’t fond of hearing the whole crew shittalking him. So, he excuses himself.

He leaves the festivities behind, searching the extravagant grounds for a bathroom.

Instead, as he rounds the corner of what might be the fifth or sixth hallway he’s been through, he finds himself looking at Dave.

The man is clad in a tattered red bathrobe, wearing nothing else more than a pair of black shorts. His exposed legs are thin and covered in extensive scarring. A large chunk is missing from the right thigh, and his left calf is bisected by the remnants of a nasty incision. His usual shades have been replaced by a pair of thick, round-rim glasses, and his eyes widen in horror as he realizes what’s happening. He tries to cover his legs, grabbing a blanket from the bag on the back of his chair. “I’m sorry. You’re not supposed to be back here. Did you need something?”

“I was looking for a bathroom,” admits Karkat, equally embarrassed by the mishap.

“Yeah. That’d make sense, huh?” Dave tugs at the cloth over his legs. He turns, and leads Karkat away, retracing his steps. He eventually gestures to a plain wooden door, nondescript in every way, before commenting further, “Toilet’s here. Uh... I hope you have a nice night, Karkat.” He reaches into the pocket of his robe, and produces a signed copy of the script to _Age of Destruction_. “I was going to give this to you later, but I guess I might as well do it now. Sorry for being an absolute raging anus earlier. Life takes a lot out of you, sometimes.” He shrugs. Then, before Karkat can thank him, he disappears down the hall.


	3. Music of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The daily happenings of StriLonde Studios lead to the beginning of a budding friendship.

**5 December 2019**  
**Skaia City**  
Central Hub District  
Day 2 of filming

On the second day, when Karkat arrives, he finds that Dave is already on set. Rose is nowhere to be seen, and, as far as he’s concerned, his early arrival means that he’s alone on the set with an unpredictable, possibly unraveling film director.

Dave is busy setting up the area for filming. Several apple boxes are strategically stacked, forming a variety of levels for camera work. The boxes form a wide arc, which surrounds a carefully maintained section of dilapidated parking lot, courtesy of the studio. He’s entirely absorbed in his work, and only stops when it seems he catches a glimpse of Karkat. “Oh.” He coughs. “Hey. Uh...”

“Karkat.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m shit with names. That info goes in one ear, and barrels out the other at the speed of sound,” Dave shrugs. Today, he’s dressed more professionally. A carefully tailored red suit and a pair of black slacks set off a black silk tie. “You’re really early. Filming doesn’t begin for another two hours.”

“Yeah, well I thought I could show up early, and there’d be more people here.”

A flock of obnoxiously loud geese fly overhead. A sizeable splash of bird shit narrowly misses Karkat.

“Most people don’t show up until they’re absolutely needed.” Dave laughs. “It’s the name of the game, dude. You get your sleep while you can. Honestly, I’d let you into your trailer, if I could.”

“If you could?” Karkat asks.

Dave frowns. He finishes stacking another box, then turns to his film’s star. “Yeah. If I could. John has the keys, I don’t. We learned pretty fuckin’ fast that my superpower is losing trailer keys, so no one trusts me with them, now. Which is fair.” The just-rising sun’s light filters through the chain link fencing, coloring Dave’s hair a vibrant orange. “I guess you could help me finish setting up. I’m not as efficient as I used to be.”

“Sure. Why the fuck not?” Karkat steps forward. He buries his hands in his pockets, bracing himself against a stiff, cold breeze. The faded red scarf around his neck whips in his face, and he pulls it back down with a huff of annoyance. “What sort of banal shit do I need to do?”

“Here's a key fob for the storage building, in the back.” Dave slips off a bracelet and tosses it to Karkat. The meat of the bracelet is little more than semi-flexible jeweler's cord, with a small metal health plate and a key fob tied on. (Printed on the back of the metal piece is, “David E. Strider. Age: 27. Medications in front bag pocket, note in wallet.” Rose Lalonde is listed as an emergency contact.) “Get the boom mounts out, static and leveraged. We'll need a few safety mats, too. Overkill it, go for the thickest ones.”

Karkat nods.

For the next twenty minutes, he follows Dave's orders, until all of the relevant equipment is out. Once that's finished, the two pause.

Dave seems to fold in on himself, sinking deeply into the backrest of his chair. “Awesome. Thanks for the help, Vantas.”

“You can call me Karkat, sir.” Karkat pauses. In all honesty, he doesn't mean to say what he does. In a haze of sleep-addled thoughtlessness, he lets it slip. Like molten steel from a metal plant's refuse chute, the words tumble gracelessly from his lips. “How long have—?”

“Seven years,” Dave mumbles. He turns away, so that his back is to Karkat, before downing a handful of medicine. “It's been... Yeah. About seven years. Not that I should really be answering the question. It's kinda rude, y'know, but...” When he turns around, he rubs his hands against his knees. “I'm used to it, now. Nothing I can do ‘bout it, so I figure it ain't worth my time to be pissed about what happened. It wasn't my fault, and I survived, so we've got two vaguely okay things going for us. Or, I guess, for me.”

“You didn't have to—” Karkat begins. (“Bother answering me,” he wants to conclude.)

Dave continues rambling. His expression is enigmatic, unnervingly blank. “Frankly, dude? It sucks. I had everything. I had an entire career ahead of me, all this goddamned time and all the energy and power in the world to do whatever I wanted, right? I could've been one of the best ones out there, and I'm...” There's a vague sense of longing in his voice. His eyes are hidden beneath his shades, but his brows are visibly furrowed. He readjusts himself in the chair, pressing against the wheels. The action causes his right leg to slip off of the rubber-coated footrest, and he falters. He catches himself, wincing as his wrist takes the impact. “I'm not entirely used to it. I mean... Uh... I'm supposed to be, right? I should be. It's almost a fifth of my life, now.”

By now, Karkat is entirely unsure of what he's supposed to say or do. He takes a small step back, away from Dave, and tries his best to press against a rising sense of pity. If anything, Dave wouldn't want it. Above all,  _he_ doesn't want it.

“I worked so fuckin’ hard, dude,” Dave spits, his expression hardening. “It's not... I mean... Life ain't fair, but this? This sure as fuck wasn't fair. I...” In an instant, he softens. It's as if he melts, sinking deep into his seat as he continues, now on a different track, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dump that all on you. My uh... My therapist hasn't been in town for a while, and I don't like going to... another... one... I... Really, man, I'm sorry. Ignore it. All of it. None of this happened.” He leans over, and tugs at the pants fabric of his right leg, until the foot is squarely set on the footrest. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Karkat lies. It's not actually fine. In a way, he feels like a voyeur, now. He's seen something he probably shouldn't have, and, now, he gets to carry that knowledge with him. Still, his very nature compels him to want to help. He approaches Dave, carefully holding the bracelet between his recently polished claws. “If you ever need anything, you can always ask.”

“Thanks.” Dave slips the bracelet back on, seeming to calm upon its return. “I'll call John, see if he can drop by early. He'll let you into your trailer. I'm... Uh... I'm really not feeling that great, now, so... I'll see you later, okay?” He turns around, waves, and departs.

Karkat, meanwhile, wonders exactly who Dave Strider really is. Who is closer to the  _real_ Dave? Is he still the bright, vivacious young director of the screen, or has he become someone else entirely?

 

Later, around noon, there's an hour-long break in filming. Karkat gathers with some of his friends, and they drop by a nearby Taco Bell.

(Admittedly, Karkat has never really liked Taco Bell. While he's not a troll cuisine purist, Taco Bell is simply one of a few human delicacy chains he'd never acquired a taste for. He won't complain, though. Their grubsauce soft tacos are decent enough, and both Kanaya and Sollux love eating there. He'll pick the place next time.)

“I've heard that you've been spending a lot of time with Dave, KK,” lisps Sollux. He's a lanky, tall troll. At seven feet tall, he towers above most members of both the human and troll species. His face is long and gaunt, but not unhealthily so, and his distinct pronunciation is born from his doubled canines. Before he continues speaking, he takes a loud slurp of his Doctor Pepper. “What's he like? Is he really as much of a hardass as Manlee Morris is saying?”

Kanaya rolls her eyes. Perhaps she already knows. “Well, I can't speak for Dave, but Rose is a wonderful woman. We had a nice chat in her trailer yesterday, during which I showed her some fabric samples for upcoming costumes.”

“That's great, Kan, but I'm more interested in that Strider guy. He's a real weirdo, isn't he, KK?” Sollux's expression screams eager. He's inquisitive, but it's a bit too prying for Karkat's taste.

“He's not that bad. Really. I mean, he seems like he's just got a verified assload of things to deal with.” Karkat nibbles at his lunch. “Yesterday, he said that he was really fucking pleased with everyone's work on the film.”

“I did not see him at the festivities, though,” Kanaya comments.

“He was feeling bad. Something about his vertebral column hurting, I think.” Another bite of food is followed by a quick addendum from Karkat. “Both of you were told not to share any shit about this on social media, right?”

Kanaya nods.

Sollux pales. “What?”

Both Karkat and Kanaya groan, but Karkat is the troll to speak up. “You shared a picture of this, didn't you? I'd delete it, if I were you. Dave'll be pissed.”

“Hey, not to be rude, but I'm not all that afraid of him.”

“You might want to be,” tuts Kanaya. She finishes off her meal, and wipes her hands on her napkin. With her tray in her hands, she rises from the booth, and walks to the exit. “If anything, Rose and Dave seem to be a joint package. If you mess with one, you will definitely get the wrath of the other.”

This makes Sollux whip out his phone.

* * *

**5 December 2019**  
**StriLonde Studios**  
1102 Bayfont Pl.  
Skaia City

While the rest of the cast and crew have scattered to the winds for break, Dave has holed himself up, in his office. He hunches over a stack of wildly jumbled papers, grumbling to himself as he makes edits and alterations. Scene 12 becomes Scene 12a, then 12b, then 12c. Then, he balls up all three revisions, and throws them in the trash. He picks up a recently emptied bottle of apple cider, and smashes it against the wall. “IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE!” he declares. “NONE OF IT MAKES ANY FUCKIN’ SENSE, DAMMIT!”

Spread out on the sofa, in the back of the office, John looks up from his mobile game. He frowns. “Calm down, dude, we'll figure it out. The film isn't due out for another two years. We won't be wrapping filming for another twelve months, absolute bottom of the estimates.”

Dave covers his face with his hands. A pained, poorly stifled sob escapes him. “This is horrible. All of it is trash. I can't even edit.”

“Hey! Hey, now, Dave. Pal. Dude.” John scrambles to his friend's side. He rubs his back and offers the most comforting words he can think of. (Not that they're very comforting. He's not the best when it comes to emotional matters.) “Don't get yourself too worked up, it's not good for you.”

“Is _anything_ good for me?” hiccups Dave. He shoves John away. “All my past films, ever since the accident, they've been nothing but critical failures. Reviews were about as bright and receptive as a goddamned peat bog, complete with an audience of sacrificial human mummies.” He pops open another cider, and begins to chug. About halfway through the bottle, he drops it. As it shatters on the ground, he kneads his knuckles against his trembling leg. “Fuck. Fuckin’ dammit.”

“You're stressing yourself out too much, Dave. Everyone loved the movies, critics are just shitheads.” John circles around, taking a pill bottle from Dave's bag.

Pale, shaking hands snatch away the prescriptions. Dave eagerly downs the pills, and heaves a ragged sigh afterwards. “Call Dirk. I quit for today.”

“Dave!” John stumbles after his friend.

Dave speeds up. He locks himself in the bathroom, and proceeds to call a cab.

* * *

**6 December 2019**  
**Skaia City**  
Central Hub District  
Day 3 of filming

The staff and crew are abuzz with the unnaturally perky mood of the director. Dave has spent the morning handing out fresh doughnuts and cracking often crude, juvenile jokes with everyone. No one suspects a thing, it seems. He's just having a great day, and he's in a spectacular mood. It seems that, with Rose caught up in costuming discussions with Kanaya, Karkat is the only one with the presence of mind to notice Dave's slightly slurred speech. His movements are heavy and boorish; his eyes are glassy and unfocused.

After the third take of Scene 12a, Karkat confronts the director. He isn't sure why he does this. It's not as if Dave is a friend of his. Perhaps, deep down, he wants nothing more than protect a man he's idolized for years. “Dave!” he calls.

From down the hall, as he hums idly and puts some unused apple boxes back in place, Dave turns. He glances over his shoulder, quirking a brow as he speaks, “Oh! Karkat. Hey. Wassup?”

Fighting back his rising anxiety, Karkat approaches his boss. “You're not... Are you fucking drunk?”

“Yup.” There's no hesitation, no remorse. “Look, pal, life's a pain in the ass. I'm just lightening up for a day. Chill.”

“So, what?” Karkat asks, his tone accusatory, “You're just going to make your films in a dysfunctional haze?”

A bitter laugh escapes Dave. “Why not? It's not like I've made any decent films lately, anyhow! Look at me, Karkat, you really think I'm churning out masterpieces right now? I'm depressed as hell, and I've got about as much patience for lecturing from you as I do for listening to Rose. And, what I'm saying here is that I really don't give a fuck about what you're trying to tell me.”

The reaction is immediate, it's hot and pulsing with years of shattered pedestals. “ _I_ like your work!” Karkat snaps. “I think your films are great! I've loved them since I was fucking twelve years old, sitting on my ass, in my shitty little hive, hoping that I'd meet you, the best human film director on the planet, one day. And you're telling me that you couldn't give less of a shit about any of it!?”

The nonplussed look on Dave’s face falters. He ages a decade in a second. “You... actually like my stuff?”

“No, I auditioned because I hate you,” Karkat spits.

Dave shifts in his seat. The brace around his right wrist catches Karkat’s eye. “I... didn’t really think ‘bout that.” He scratches his stubble-covered chin. “I’m sorry.”

“You say that too often.”

“Well, I am.”

“For what?”

“I’m a miserable fool,” Dave shrugs. He coughs. “Look, you want to call this a truce?”

Karkat pauses. “There was no war, dumbass.”

“Yeah. But I’m...” Dave shakes his head. “Just accept my apology, and we won’t talk about this again, ‘kay?” Only now does Karkat recognize the buttery smoothness to Dave’s voice. It’s a low, smoky rumble, with a heavy southern accent.

It drills down, resonating in Karkat’s bones and striking a chord in his soul. It grabs hold of his mind, until he can think of nothing but the sound of Dave’s voice. “Yeah,” he says, breathless, “Got it.”


	4. Run, Boy, Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After several days of grueling work, there's a bonding moment between two unlikely acquaintances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section is basically just Dave recounting the crash. You've been warned.  
> Also, don't know if you've noticed, but the chapter titles are songs.

**12 December 2019**  
**StriLonde Studios**  
1102 Bayfont Pl.  
Skaia City

Dave summons Karkat to his office. Before filming begins, but after makeup work is done, he leads the troll inside the studio, to a room behind a polished walnut door. He speaks in a soft voice, reassuring, like a television presenter. “You’re not in any trouble, I just wanted to talk,” he says.

Upon arrival, Dave holds the door open. It’s a smooth, practiced motion. He opens the door with one hand, and uses the other to maneuver himself in front of it. Despite the warmth of the building, he refuses to take off his drab brown overcoat. Beneath the sleeves, hidden in shadow, Karkat sees the edges of a painful-looking burn scar.

Thin lips spread into a sad smile. When he speaks, it’s halting and uncertain. “I... I wanted to thank you, Karkat. I guess I just haven’t been... It’s hard, doing all this. It’s tiring.” As the door clicks closed, Dave wanders to a lowered counter. He begins preparing some coffee. “Rose said you’re a fan of our stuff?”

“Yeah,” Karkat brightens instantly. “My favorite is _Ice over Fire_.” He wrings his hands together, listening to the soft clacking of his own claws tapping together. It’s all that keeps him from realizing exactly who he’s talking to. It keeps him from breaking down. “I love the romantic subplot, and the camera shots are just amazing. Your tracking and panning work...”

Dave smiles. It’s subdued, not nearly as free as yesterday. “Wheelchairs are great for keeping cameras steady.” He pats his lap. “I’m surprised you like it, tough. Critics hated it.”

“Guess I’m not a critic,” Karkat shrugs. “It’s one of my favorite films. And I’m actually really, hugely fucking thrilled to be working with you. Not to be creepy, or whatever.”

Dave, to Karkat's surprise, laughs. It's a soft sound, nothing like the boisterous laughter he has on television, but it's nicer. It's more intimate. His expression quickly hardens, though, and he gestures to a red (likely fake) leather armchair, directly across the desk from where he's parked. He opens a drawer, and pulls out a tattered manila envelope. In large black letters, penned in Rose's flowing handwriting, is the label: Insurance Photos. When he slides it across the desk, he looks away.

As there's little more to do, Karkat sits. He takes the file into his hands, and unwinds the string with the utmost care. He's fully aware of what he'll likely see, but he doesn't question it. Not now. For now, he simply pulls out the photos, all printed on glossy 5×7 pages.

He recognizes the first photo. It was often circulated in promotional materials and, until 2013, it was the company's main webpage spread. Dave and Rose stand, back to back, before a lovingly polished red Mustang. It's an older model, from the 1970's, and the chrome accents shine in the sun. A closer look reveals that the photo was taken in Hollywood, as towering palms line the reflected street. (Or, at least, it's probably Hollywood.) Scrawled on the back, in cramped pencil, is the caption: “Dave, approx. three months prior to accident.”

The next photo is face down, with the caption showing. “1975 Mustang, immediately after collision.” Slowly, Karkat flips the page. Laying on the driver's side, the bright red vehicle is nothing less than destroyed. The top has been crushed, like a sheet of thin foil. The passenger's side is caved in, a tin can in the face of an unbelievable amount of force. If Karkat had to guess, he'd say the awkward angle of the wreck indicates that the driver's side is in a similar state. Large blotches of muddy brown—which Karkat slowly recognizes as blood—stain the white leather interior. Parts of the dashboard are scorched, and the front airbag seems to have failed to deploy.

“Why are you showing me this?” Karkat asks.

Dave shrugs. He refuses to look in the same direction as the folder. “It's nice to know that someone else knows about it, I guess.”

With a mix of newfound confidence in his mission and personal apprehension, Karkat sets the image aside. He looks at the next. Again, it's flipped over. “Dave, three days after collision.” He breathes in, breathes out, and looks. Dave's heavily bruised face is held together by crisscrossing staples and sutures. (Looking up, it seems that some of those scars are still visible.) A halo is secured around his head, and tubes pour from what seems like every available part of his body. Both legs are in casts, and thick gauze dressings are wound from his right wrist to his hip. Despite what appear to be fresh bandages, small amounts of blood are already seeping through his dressings.

“They pried out a section of my skull,” explains Dave, seeming to unconsciously rub the side of his head. There's no evidence of what he speaks of, now, but his hair is likely obscuring it. “Crazy as fuck brain swelling, apparently. They talked about amputating my left leg. Femur was totally annihilated, blasted into the next goddamned century. Thought I'd be as much as write-off as the car. Doctors said I had a five percent chance to survive. By all goddamned rights, I shouldn't be here, talking to you, breathing on my own, moving my arms.” There's a moment of contemplation, followed by a look of deep thought. He gnaws on his lip for a few minutes, then motions for Karkat to flip to the next page.

“X-Rays, one week after collision.” Bones are held in place with row after row of rods and pins. His legs are a roadmap of horror, with countless shards barely staying together at the will of dozens of tiny metal reinforcements. His jaw is wired shut, and his right eye socket has been painstakingly reconstructed. Screws keep a vertebra in his neck from snapping in half, and a long rod has been inserted into his lower back.

For a moment, Dave hazards a glance at the images. He shivers. “I don't remember any of it. I can remember, every now and then, it was like I could hear people in another room. They told Rose to let me die at least three times. Hell, if I was awake for it, I would've wanted to.” A swift tug reveals a flash of burnt skin, which seems to run up his right arm. “Massive goddamned burns, and some of the reason for the coma was to keep me from feeling all that shit. Apparently, it ain't pretty. Somehow, I avoided snapping my neck, but the truck turned most of my lower back to finely mashed potato.”

The next several photos are all similar, showing little progress over the course of two months. Bandages are removed, wounds are stitched, and new surgeries leave fresh scars.

“Insurance didn't want to give us shit. When they livestreamed me, a basic ass corpse, laying in the hospital. They caved.” Dave closes his eyes. He reaches into his breast pocket, and pulls out a packet of nicotine gum. After chewing on a stick for a few seconds, he continues speaking. “When they tried to wake me up, it went about as well as you'd fuckin’ expect. Absolute medical disaster. I basically blew out my brain. Massive stroke, and an immediate operation. Doctors were shitting themselves over me, trying to be the one to claim they saved my life.”

“March 2014, Dave wakes up.” The photo is of an almost unidentifiable person, emaciated, gaunt, and with the face of a man three times his age. He's propped against a wall of pillows, and the left side of his face droops. He's a far cry from the man across the desk.

“First time I remember waking up, I asked them to kill me.” Dave pauses. He removes his shades and polishes them against his shirt. Red eyes stare ahead, unblinking and glistening. “I mean, it was just goddamned agony to exist. I couldn't breathe on my own, couldn't move most of my body, and couldn't eat. Last one sucked the most. I'd have been perfectly fine if I could've snacked down on some dank steak, you feel? But, nope! No steak for me! Took me six months to reverse the effects of the stroke. Never fixed the rest of the paralysis. I guess that I should've figured as much on that front, right?”

“I'm sorry,” Karkat places the photos back into the envelope, and tosses it back to Dave. He only made it through half; he can't stomach any more. “I didn't know it was that fucking bad...”

“No one does.” Dave shrugs. He flexes the fingers of his left hand, staring at them, with a sort of unprecedented wonder. “I don't remember things as well as I used to... I guess... I forgot how damned amazing it is that I'm not dead or comatose. We've hidden it all from the public for years. They don't know. If they knew, no one would fund us. It's pretty standard thought that a bastard in a wheelchair, with zero mobility below his goddamned middle torso can't do much film work. I don't act, now. I don't do stunts. If anyone knew, funding would dry up faster than mall cops could smack a screaming munchkin out of a crowded food court.”

“You really think that?” Karkat asks, a bit dumbfounded.

“We tried to appeal to studios after I was released, before I'd really gotten a hang of the chair. Turned down by everyone. We considered selling the company and moving on, letting me live out the rest of my life scanning items at the local Walmart.” Dave turns, now, so that he can fully face Karkat. “I figured I'd be another of those sob stories. Some rising star, shot down in his prime. Maybe a few people would come to Bumfuck Nowhere Wally-world, and say, ‘Wow! That's him! Poor Dave Strider! He made, like, two good movies. Then, he got hit by a car. That's kinda sucky.’ I'd probably end up the poster child of dwindling campaigns to not drink and drive. Not that anyone would care. It's texting and driving, now. But, hey, same idea.”

Karkat nods.

Dave, oddly enough, smiles. This time, it's a bit wider. His right canine is missing, and his front teeth are chipped. When he speaks, Karkat begins to notice a sort of muffled quality to his pronunciation. His thick accent masks it well, but, if he concentrates, he can hear mispronounced ‘R’s and slurred together vowels. “You're pretty good at listenin’. If you ‘adn't gone int’acting, you'd've been a damn good therapist.” He spits out his gum. “By the way, none of the cigars on set are real. I'm trying to quit.”

Karkat nods. Serene silence falls between the two.

In the dim, flicking fluorescent lighting, Karkat traces the scars across Dave's face. He studies the way he breathes—calculated, slowly, evenly. He watches him move, noting, now, a vaguely perceptible difference in how often he uses his left and right sides. They're all such little pieces of him, but they come together to form a whole person.

It's a constant in everyone, understanding the small things that make them tick, and it's a useful skill for actors to have. Understanding others means expanding your own range. Observing behavior allows for more convincing work.

* * *

**13 December 2019**  
**StriLonde Studios - Greenroom**  
Day 9 of filming

The fighting is well-rehearsed and choreographed. That doesn't make facing off against co-star and deuterantagonist, Manlee Morris, any less frightening. Every misstep is a literal punch in the gut, and every falter or wrong turn is an elbow to the ribs. Karkat trained for acting, not for fighting, and it shows. After the fourth take, as he takes another strong punch to the gut, he stumbles back. He falls.

“Oh, fuck, man. Did I hit too hard?” Manlee stands over Karkat, his face the image of concern.

“We're taking a break! Cut!” Dave's voice thunders over the entire space. He needs no megaphone; his voice naturally projects. He rushes forward, with a warm towel and a juice box. “Manlee, you're doing fantastic work. We just need to work on choreographing some more. Take an hour to rest. We'll be back to this soon.” He offers a small, reserved smile. Then, he turns his attentions to Karkat. He throws the towel over his shoulders, and looks around. After realizing that everyone has dutifully heeded his commands, he sighs. “Guess it's just us. C'mon, get up.”

Karkat staggers to his feet. After looking for approval from Dave, he leverages himself against the man's shoulder. “I'm a drama actor, not a stuntman,” he mumbles, rubbing his aching jaw. “What the fuck do you expect from me, dammit!?” Part of him feels bad for treating his filmmaking idol this way, but a majority of him is simply sore and bitter. “Isn't there enough in the budget for a stuntperson?”

“No, not really.” Dave shrugs. “Listen, you're leaning too far into it. You want to make it believable, yeah, of course. But you're not aiming to throw real punches. You're—”

“Have you  _seen_ the shit Manlee is doing!?” Karkat whines.

“Yes. And I'll be talking to him, later. For now, I'm focusing on you.” Dave wheels back a bit. “Maybe you haven't fought before, and that's perfectly fine. Not everyone had as shitty a childhood as me, so,” he balls his hands into fists. “You want to look like you're landing your hits on the knuckles, not your fingers. Shit hurts. Broken bones, fucked up joints, arthritis, all the wonderful parts of a bad punch potluck.” He throws a punch, slowly, so that the motion is visible. He twists his wrist a bit as his arm travels. “You want to move more, to jab, to keep energy flowing from your core to your fists. It's not something you just do with your arm.”

Karkat tries for himself. He feels foolish, punching at the air like a disillusioned  _Rocky_ fan, but he does so, anyhow.

Dave rubs his chin. (It had been cleanly shaven when he arrived, but fuzzy stubble is already beginning to reappear.) “You're not putting enough weight into it. Or, I guess, you're not faking enough weight. Lean forward more when you throw the punch. I mean...” He inches forward, and parks himself in front of Karkat. “Punch me.”

“No!” Karkat says, horrified by the suggestion. “Why the fuck would I punch you? I mean, you're a vaguely overbearing turd of steaming, artistically disgruntled magma, but I won't punch you for it.”

“Are you afraid you're too strong?” asks Dave, a small smirk playing at his lips, but not yet appearing. “Are you too starstruck?” The smirk shows, now—tiny, but present. “Punch me!” he again commands.

And, for a second time, Karkat shakes his head. “You're fucking insane! You've fried your think pan beyond the point of salvation!”

“You afraid to punch a man in a wheelchair?” Again, the smirk grows. He knows what he's saying. He's digging, now, trying to find a weak point. “I'm asking you, as your boss, to punch me. It can't hurt any more than the shit I've already lived through.” With his thumbs and forefingers, he forms a rectangular area just below his chest. “Throw a punch! Show me what you can do! We must've hired you for a reason. Our casting director might be a real bastard, but Adamska doesn't just refer random, talentless hacks.”

“I mean—” Karkat begins.

Dave interrupts. “Look, I'm pretty much demanding you deck me in the fuckin’ gut. Wind up your arm, and throw the best haymaker, or whatever sort of punch floats your pissy little boat. You want me to respect you, as an actor, you have to respect me, as a director. Show me what you can do.”

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Karkat grumbles. He turns, and prepares to walk away.

And, in that moment, it seems Dave has managed to find out just how to dig into his armor. “Fine! I'll just tell everyone else you had the chance to hit the world's most despised director to work with, and you didn't have the damned balls to do it!”

Fed up with the constant goading, driven by an instinctive inner rage, Karkat reels back, to face Dave. He aims a solid punch, and it connects with a resounding _thud_.

The wheelchair tips. Dave tumbles out, rolling one or two feet before stopping.

“Shit,” Karkat mumbles. He rushes over, fairly certain he's genuinely hurt the human, only to find the man laughing.

“You're stronger than you look,” Dave grins. It's a genuine look of joy, brimming with an odd sort of pride. He gestures to the chair, and pushes himself into a loose sitting position. “That was damned good. What you want when you're fighting is to make it look like that, but to put less power behind it.” When the chair is by his side, he pulls himself back up. “Understand me?”

Karkat, still thoroughly confused by everything that's just happened, nods. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Perfect.” Dave flashes a quick ‘OK’ hand signal. “I'll go talk to Manlee, and we'll get back to filming after a break. You've got a tear in your coat, too, so go and get Kanaya to patch that up.”

By the time Karkat has begun to answer, Dave has already made it a good two yards away. “Where the hell do I find Kanaya!?”

“Try Rose's trailer!” Dave waves, and turns a corner, disappearing into the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. comments and feedback are always welcome!  
> 2\. yes i named a troll manlee morris  
> 3\. the movie is actually based on another of my fics, please don't take off my mask, which i'm still working on but my ADHD demanded i put aside for now


	5. Fly Me to the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends get together, along with two unexpected tagalongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preferably choose the Neon Genesis Evangelion version of the song but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**14 December 2019**  
**GrubbleHub Café**  
12 E. Partridge St.  
Skaia City

GrubbleHub is a well-known spot within the Skaian troll community. It's a historic dive, founded over a hundred years ago, just after the first Alternian arrivals on Earth. It's served traditionally fried grub pies and pronged pastries for as long as most living trolls can remember, and it's the heart of the Alternian district. So, on their day off from filming, it's the perfect spot for three troll friends to gather.

“I hope you don't mind,” Kanaya says, biting into her pastry. The claw-shaped confection bursts open, sprinkling flaky dough on the plate below. Bright green sopor-flavored creme spills forth. “I invited Rose to dine with us. She should be arriving shortly. She informed me that she will also be bringing Dave, as he has a desire to indulge in some authentic Alternian cuisine, as research for the film.” A bright smile punctuates the comment.

Sollux groans. “You invited the absolute lamest boss I've ever had to lunch?” He slams his face into the table, only missing his plate due to Karkat's swift intervening. “You're murdering my social life, Kanaya. This is _exactly_ why Aradia won't hang out with us anymore! Because you keep inviting absolute losers to hang out with us!”

“Actually, —” Karkat interjects, doing his best not to blush, “—I don't think Dave's all that bad. I mean... He's uh... He's kind of fucking cute, if you think about it...”

From the seat beside him, Kanaya snickers. Her cheeks light up, a soft, dark green, and she smiles. “Indeed, I must admit that I am quite fond of Rose, myself... My apologies, Sollux.”

“This is impossible!” The third troll throws his hands in the air. He trudges off, muttering obscenities under his breath, and approaches the counter, where orders are placed.

In the meantime, Rose and Dave arrive. They each take a seat at the ovular table.

Rose has dressed immaculately. A long, pink dress, with a small slit at the thigh, accents her black shoes and hairband. When she arrives, she smiles; her eyes settle deliberately on Kanaya. “I'd like to extend a warm gratitude for inviting us to dine with you. We've never been to a troll establishment before, so we're a bit new to the system.”

“Oh,  _you_ haven't been to one, but  _I_ sure as fuck have.” Dave shrugs. He departs, making his way to the ordering station, just as Sollux is returning.

The double-horned troll sighs. He sets down mug of Alternian sopor juice, similar in composition and effect to human alcohol. He chugs. (The drinking age for trolls is slightly lower than that of humans.)

Kanaya, meanwhile, explains the process. “At troll restaurants, you order at the counter. Your drink and food will be brought to the table. After that, you proceed as one would with human establishments. Payment is the same, as are tip percentages.”

“Oh! Lovely!” Rose takes the menu into her hands with a peppy little bob. She scans the available meals, only to once again glance at Kanaya. “I'm uncertain of what these ingredients are. Finely beaten ground fruits are not things I often indulge in, if you understand my obtuse phrasing.”

“Of course. I'd recommend the Plattered Pancake. It's a slightly spicy twist on the human delicacy of the same name,” Kanaya points to the item.

“Sounds delicious!” Rose rises from her seat. “I'll return shortly.” She departs, and Dave returns.

“Do these places ever consider cleaning their goddamned floors?” The blond man grimaces. He rubs his hands against his knees. “It's sticky as hell. Dirt is on floor, wheels are on floor, and hands touch wheels. You see where I'm leading, here? I'll just go on ahead and say it, make it really easy to get. My hands are covered in rancid, sticky alien creme.”

“Oh.” Karkat frowns. He takes a napkin, and dips it into his glass of water. “Here.” He tosses the makeshift wet wipe.

Dave takes it, with a nod. “Thanks. So... uh...” He looks to Kanaya, furrows his brows, and frowns. “Kanaya, right?”

“Indeed!”

Another nod. Dave's attentions turn, now, to the silent group member. “I'm... Uh... I know you're part of the sound team... Key grip. But I really hate to say I don't have a fuckin’ clue what your name is.”

“Oh, jeeze, thanks! It's Sollux.”

Karkat elbows his friend in the side. He mentions nothing about what he knows, only the most basic feedback, “You want him to fire your ingrate ass?”

Sollux shakes his head. “Sorry, sir. Sollux Captor. I'm the key grip, and I'm friends with Karkat.”

To everyone's surprise, Dave laughs. “A pal of Karkat's is a pal of mine, I guess.” He finishes wiping his hands, then sets aside the napkin. “I'd offer to shake, but my hands are still pretty damned gross. Let's just say we've done it. Fair?”

“Fair.” Under his breath, Sollux tacks on, “Not that I'd like to actually shake your damned hand anyh—OW!” he blurts out when Karkat elbows him.

An awkward silence descends over the gathering. Not even Rose's return breaks it. (Karkat notices, however, that she and Kanaya are sitting suspiciously close to one another. Under the table, and perhaps under the impression that no one else notices, they hold hands.)

Across the table, Dave fidgets. He rubs his hands together; then, he rubs them against his knees. He leans his elbow on the locked right wheel of his chair, and taps his fingers against his thigh. Several times, he opens his mouth, only to promptly close it again.

Eventually, Rose, probably sensing her twin's anxiety, speaks up. “What I believe Dave wants to say is that he's making an effort to interact more with the cast and crew, and that he very much appreciates all of your hard work. I share the sentiment! We understand how hard it is to work with this industry, and all its odd, long hours. Your effort does not go unnoticed.”

Dave nods. “Yeah. Perfect. That.”

Sollux sighs.

Karkat and Kanaya nod.

“Order for...” The waitress, a female troll with long spiraling horns, pauses. A wide smile spreads across her face. After placing a coffee and a slime fruit-stuffed pastry on the table, she digs a notepad from her pocket. “You're him! Dave Strider!”

“I... Yeah... I guess I am.” Dave's fidgeting intensifies. He rubs the edges of his sleeves and chews on his lip. “Nice to meet you.”

“I'm Ariana. I'm a big fan of your stuff. Would you mind...?” the woman slides a notebook across the table.

Dave, with a small smile, signs the page. He hands it back.

“Thank you!” The waitress bows. Then, she runs off.

Sollux, now, speaks up. “So, uh... Mr. Strider...”

Dave winces at the mention of the name. “Dave. Just call me Dave.”

“Strider,” Sollux compromises, “Karkat's been talking a lot about y—OW! Dammit, KK, stop slamming me in the stomach!”

By now, identical rouges have rushed to both Dave's and Karkat's face.

Dave sets down his pastry. “Oh. Uh... You... Uhm... Fuck.” A nervous laugh. A twitch of the brow. He releases the safety brakes of his chair, with a soft  _click_ , and backs away from the table. “I have to go to the bathroom. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

“Dammit, Sollux.” Karkat groans. He stumbles to his feet, and pursues Dave.

At the most basic, survivalist level of his thought process, he doesn't want his boss to have any inkling of the fact that he may have developed an inexplicable cross-quadrant crush for him. A step above this is his need to not absolutely creep out his longstanding hero. And, above even that point, he doesn't know Dave's orientation. Hell, most humans don't even consider dating trolls; likewise, most trolls rarely consider dating humans. It's not unheard of, nor is it usually looked down upon, but it's rare.

By the time he arrives in the restroom, Dave has already occupied the largest stall. As he's not a caveman, Karkat doesn't attempt to open the stall door; had he done so, he would've found that the lock is busted. “Hey, Dave?”

“Oh!” the man startles. Plastic rattles, and the distinct crinkling of opening a glossy plastic package comes from behind the laminated wooden door. “Draining my bladder in here, if that's what you're looking for. The other stalls are empty.”

“No, I just wanted to talk to you. Sorry for my friend. Sollux is an absolute fuckhead. His thinkpan isn't on right.” Karkat runs his fingers through his hair. He breathes in. Out. In. Out. “I just wanted to let you know that it's not like... I don't have any sort of flushed feelings for you, or whatever inexplicable sensations humans associate with romantic feelings.” His words are an outright lie, but he won't let Dave know about this fact. “You just seemed really freaked out about any idea that I considered you more than a friend, so...”

“That's great.” There's something more to Dave's voice, a hint of a feeling that Karkat can't quite place. Aloofness? Distrust? Confusion? Whatever it is, it's gone when he speaks again. “Nice to know. You can maybe let me forcibly drain my own bladder by myself, now.”

“Oh. Fuck. Yeah.” Mentally berating himself, Karkat rushes out of the bathroom. By the time he returns to the table, he finds that Rose and Kanaya have left.

Sollux fills him in on what he missed. “Our ride bailed to make out with the female human. They were really sucking some damned face.”

Karkat groans.

Clearly, this entire idea has been nothing but a farce, equal in power to making your significant other watch  _Grave of the Fireflies_ on a first date. Which is to say that it's a horrible idea, and it's gone so damned wrong that his world seems to be actively collapsing.

“This all went to shit. I'm going home.” Sollux rises to his feet, phone in hand. As he saunters away, Karkat catches a snippet of conversation. “Yeah? Hey! Aradia!”

And, at this exact moment, it dawns upon Karkat that he's alone, left at a troll café, and he has no car to drive home in. Kanaya had driven everyone over, and she'd dumped them all, like hot potatoes.

By the time Dave gets back, Karkat's anxiety is in full swing. It must be running absolutely wild, too, since Dave quickly picks up on it. “You okay, Karkat?”

“Yeah. Everyone's left, and I just figured out that I carpooled. I'll just get an Uber. Sorry for—”

Dave rolls past, gesturing for Karkat to follow. “I'll drive you home, dude, don't fuckin’ sweat it.”

Silently, seething with overwhelming embarrassment, he's led to a small hatchback, pure black.

He watches, with a mix of curiosity and awkwardness, as Dave gets into the car. He parks his chair, grabs onto the handle inside, and heaves himself up. It's a deft, easy motion, showcasing a great amount of strength. Once seated, he adjusts himself, and smooths the legs of his pants out. “You're staring,” he says, refusing to look away from the wheel. His grip turns his knuckles white. “It's kind of... Uh... It's really annoying, actually. I'd...” He coughs. (Karkat begins to theorize that his coughs aren't to clear his throat. Rather, he seems to cough to dispel his nerves.) “Short and sweet? TL;DR? Don't do that shit. It's hard enough getting around without my own goddamned staff staring at me.”

“Sorry.” Karkat clambers into the passenger seat.

Dave starts the car. The acceleration and brakes have been replaced by a lever, located just below the controls for the windshield wipers. He drives with two fingers of his left hand always resting on the acceleration. When the wheel turns, the left hand loosens, staying in place, until the turn is complete. “It's fine. I should be used to it.” He doesn't take his eyes off the road. “It's fine. Sorry. Sorry. My nerves got the best of me again. Always do. Where do you—?”

A car horn honks, trying to tell Dave the light has been green for a solid minute.

The man freezes. He slams on the gas.

The car lurches forward. As Karkat digs into the cushion beneath him, ripping straight through the fabric, he yells. He doesn't really hear it over the pounding of his heart. It only seems to make things worse.

Dave swerves, and the car careens off the road, into a vacant parking lot. As it skids to a stop, he wilts, falling against the steering wheel. His breathing is rapid and shallow, and his hands shake.

Once he's managed to regain his composure, Karkat releases his grip on the chair. Bits of stuffing come away, clinging to the tiny serrated edges of his claws. “Dave?”

There's no response. His hands cover his face, and his hair is slowly soaking with sweat. His body trembles, racked with sobs. His hands move, nails digging into the fabric of his pants, tearing at invisible wounds. “That smell...” he mumbles, “It's horrible. Jesus.”

“What smell?” Karkat asks, trying his best to stay calm. He's no expert; he's never been one, and he's never considered himself a real people person. But, now, the only thing he can do is his best. “I'll open the window, Dave. Is that fine? Would that help?”

“Burning flesh,” Dave gasps. “Oil, blood, melting metal, fiberglass. It's...”

“You're okay,” Karkat says, his voice as soft as he can manage. “We're in some random fucking parking lot, looks like no one has used it in years. I'm not from around here, so I don't have a flying damned clue what could've been here.”

“I don't want to die. Not now.”

“You're fine,” Karkat reassures. He rapidly searches the internet, trying every tip he can find. “It's not happening.”

Dave's eyes remain shut. “It's horrible. The goddamned  _smell_.”

“Come on, Dave, snap out of it.” If for no other reason, Karkat wants to go home. He's tired, it's been a disastrous day, and this is only adding fuel to the train wreck. His own anxiety has hit the ceiling, and his self-esteem is plummeting by the second. “Can you even hear me? Dave. We're in a parking lot. Open your eyes. Breathe.”

It takes several minutes, but Dave eventually complies. His breathing begins to settle, and he slowly opens his eyes. He wipes his face on his sleeve, and glances, anxiously, at Karkat. “My God... You... You saw all of that, didn't you?” he says, his words hushed. “I'm... I'm so sorry. Really. You didn't need to...” He begins to drive the car out of the lot. His efforts to avoid meeting Karkat's gaze have increased tenfold. “Please... Don't tell the rest of the crew. It's... I need to at least  _look_ like I can handle my job, okay? It's pretty much all I have left.”

Karkat, uncertain of what he could possibly say, nods.

“Thanks. Uh...”

“Just drop me at the bus stop. I'll ride back from there.” Karkat's answer is honest. His mind is reeling, his entire view of life has been shattered. If the man he's idolized for most of his life can barely handle himself, what hope does he have?

“Sounds great. I'll...” Dave slows to a stop at the next stop. “Thanks. For everything.”

“No problem,” Karkat lies. He grabs his bag, and exits the vehicle as fast as he possibly can.


	6. Sukiyaki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of life, and an unofficial date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TECHNICALLY, the song is [_ue o muite arukou_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C35DrtPlUbc)., by kyu sakamoto it's an old japanese song, also one of my favorite songs of all time. why? fuck if i know.

**16 December 2019**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

“Aren't you supposed to be stopping your unhealthy habit?” Rose passes by the building's hot tub. One brow is raised; the other, furrowed.

“And you're not supposed to be fucking our lead seamstress.” Dave shrugs. He leans back, watching as his lower body floats, weightless and free. He reaches over, downs a bottle of beer, and settles deeper into the warm water. He revels in the water against his back, soothing his aching joints. “So, what do you want? You wouldn't have stopped by for no reason, and we both know that.”

“Karkat informed me of your... mishap in the car. I've revoked your license, for the time being. I've also taken the liberty of scheduling you more therapy appointments.” With these words, Rose smirks. From her pocket, she pulls out a small card—Dave's ID—before once again stowing it away. “You really shouldn't be driving while so unhinged, anyhow. It's dangerous for you, and for others.”

“Dammit.” Dave groans. “I told that bastard not to tell you about it. Whatever. Fine. That just means you'll have to shuttle my miserable ass around, so I don't seen an issue here. It's a lose-lose for everyone.”

“Maybe.” A wry smile replaces Rose's smirk. “You talk as if you're not falling for the film's star.”

“I'm not.” The response is immediate, it's enraged, but it's cold. “And it's not as if he'd like me, anyhow. We're friends.”

* * *

**18 December 2019**  
**Lakeview Forest**  
Just outside of Skaia City  
Day 12 of filming

The clouds overhead are a drab, dark grey. They droop, hanging low and heavy on the horizon, like overweight specters. The wind is stiff and cold, and it chills to the bone. Earlier, in the morning, there had been snow. Now, it's turned to an icy downpour. Everyone is huddled under a small collection of tents, listening to the pounding rain against the tarp. Breath rises in puffs of smoke. Condensation, which spirals into the air and disappears.

It's the first time Dave has been on set since his breakdown in the car. He's wrapped in a thick blanket, and shivering. He's replaced the wheels of his chair with thicker, sturdier ones; a third, like the leg of a tripod, has been added to the front. For the past few minutes, he's been making rounds to each tent. He speaks, and the occupants disperse. Now, the last tent is Karkat's. He approaches, his clothes soaked through, and speaks. “Everyone's dismissed. Filming's cancelled for the day.”

Karkat packs. When he leaves, he's met with a small smile and a pat on the back from Dave.

“Good work today, Karkat. I wouldn't be surprised if you roped yourself one hell of a contract with a better company after this movie.” With this said, he departs.

Karkat has no time to protest, nor to point out that he couldn’t think of a better company to work with.

* * *

**19 December 2019**  
**StriLonde Studios - Green Room**  
Day 13 of filming

It's early, around 5:00. Filming isn't set to start until 7:00, and no one else has arrived. Karkat is alone, save for Dave Strider, who just so happens to be busy touching up paint work on a wooden crate's label. Muted red paint, like blood, forms streaks in his light hair. Muddy brown is smeared along the lengths of his exposed arms. A burn scar covers the right arm, from the wrist to an unknown part of his body. Beneath it, in spotty patches, are the remnants of an old, forgotten tattoo. He works carefully, meticulously, filling in worn out spots and covering over parts that aren't needed. Smoke rises from the cigarette in his mouth. Instead of his shades, he wears the glasses from the party—standard lenses, set in round frames.

“Dave?”

The man turns his head, so that he can look over his shoulder. “Karkat.”

“You paint?” Karkat approaches, studying the work that's been done. The colors match exactly, and the faux logo design is convincingly rendered, almost professionally so. “You're fairly decent at it.”

A small shrug. A grunt of discomfort. He grabs his shaking leg, splattering paint on his pants in the process. Perhaps he doesn't notice. Maybe he doesn't care, but he certainly doesn't react. “I picked up the habit in the hospital. It's not like I'm a pro. Thanks for the compliment, though.” He grinds the butt of his cigarette against his knee. Even as it burns through the fabric, he refuses to flinch. “Rose was looking for you, wanted to shoot some shit about your character interpretation.”

“Okay.” Karkat buries his hands in his pockets. He turns to leave, only to feel compelled to do otherwise. “Hey, Dave?”

“Hm?” The human doesn't look away from his work.

“When are you going to be free?”

This causes a moment's pause. Dave frowns. “Free?”

“Yeah, you obtuse shit-for-a-think-pan. Pull your head out of your refuse chute and figure it out. I mean...” Karkat rubs the back of his neck. “I was just wondering when you'd be available to maybe... Go out to lunch? Strictly business, no funny shit. I wanted to talk to you about my performance. You don't give me as much feedback as the others, so I thought you might not—”

“I don't tell you because you don't need tips,” Dave says. He places one of the brushes in his mouth, holding it between his teeth like a cigarette. “Thanks for the invite, though.”

Karkat panics. Nerves grab hold of him, and he speaks before he thinks. “Then, maybe, as friends?”

“Huh?” Dave freezes. After a few seconds, he laughs. Beneath the veneer of outward indifference, there's a hint of bitterness. A drop of lemon in water, it flavors his words and colors his posture. “Sure. Why not? Pick a place.”

“It's a ways out, but I know a place.” From his back pocket, he pulls a scrap of paper. He scribbles the name of the restaurant—Grubland—and hands it over. “My father runs it. I'll call beforehand, make sure the ramp we've been building for three fucking years finally gets filled in.”

“Hey, don't make any special requests just for me,” Dave waves his hand in the air, dismissive of the very concept. “I can handle myself. It sounds like a nice place, and it's not as if I have much else to do. Drop by my place on Sunday.”

The pent up fear in Karkat dissipates. His hard outer shell melts, and a small smile works its way onto his face. He unconsciously runs his hands through his hair. “Yeah. That sounds great. Are you sure you don't want me to call ahead?”

“I can handle it.” Dave returns to his work. (Unbeknownst to Karkat, a blush has colored his cheeks.) “I'll see you then, okay? For now, go and check with Rose.”

“Understood.” Karkat bows, a common sign of subservience in Alternian culture. It's akin to a nod between humans. He turns, and prepares to head out, only to be interrupted by a comment from his boss.

“And, while you're at it, she keeps asking me about your friend.”

“Kanaya?” Karkat smirks. “I'll help her out.”

“Fantastic. She'll stop bugging me.”

* * *

**22 December 2019**  
**StrLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

Picking up Dave makes Karkat feel incredibly self-conscious. His car is nothing like the ones he's seen at the Strider-Lalonde household. It's not a custom job, it's not adaptable, and it's sure as hell not an antique. It's an old, mid-2000's Mazda hatchback. The grey paint is peeling in several places, and, when one sits, the seats suck the occupant’s ass down, like quicksand. The horn is broken, and the heating is spotty at best.

Pulling up to the mansion, now, in broad daylight, only makes the differences more striking. Here he is, a nobody, before a mansion with at least thirty rooms, a pool, a bowling alley, and two massive culinary-grade kitchens. He pulls through the looping driveway, with its graceful stone fountain at its manicured center, and parks beside Rose's antique Rapier. (Perhaps it's not _Rose's_ , per se. It might be Dave's; he doesn't really know.) When Dave exits, in what _must_ be a custom-tailored suit, it's a far cry from Karkat's store-bought, baggy-in-some-places-and-too-tight-in-others getup.

He tries to keep his cool, to maintain a level head, even in the face of what seems like massive embarrassment. He watches Dave's approach, and rolls down the window when the man indicates for him to do so.

“I'm vaguely amazed you actually followed through on this,” Dave laughs. He tugs at the bright red scarf around his neck. “You mind helping out? I can already tell, just by the looks of this goddamned zoom zoom machine—trademark included, of course—that it'll be a pain in the ass for me to throw the chair in the back by myself.” Even as he speaks, he opens the door. He lifts himself in.

Not wanting to be rude, and also unsure of what else he'd even do, Karkat complies. He rushes to the passenger's side, and looks expectantly to the human male. “Okay. I don't mean to sound like an absolute piss-for-brains grub-muncher, but I don't know what I'm supposed to do with this. Of course, you, and your truly un-fucking-believably enlightened lifestyle, probably just think I'm an idiot, right?”

Dave, to Karkat's shock, laughs. It's more akin to his public laughter. It's grand, a bit nasal, and sprinkled with a few snorts. “Nah. You're chill, dude. I get it. If you don't use one, why would you know how to break it down? Cushion comes off first, then you fold down the backrest.” As he speaks, Karkat follows the instructions. When a part comes off, he hands it to Dave, who stows it in the backseat. “Wheels next. I think it's easier to tilt it side-wise. There's a tiny bump on the side, near the rims. Push it down, and pull. Keep fingers out of the spokes, ‘less you want some fucked up digits.”

“Shit! Shit! Slow down!” pleads a thoroughly exasperated troll.

To his credit, Dave pauses. He waits a few minutes, watching, with a keen eye. Then, once Karkat has caught up, he continues. “Fold the back down, and you're done. That's it!” He says the last two words with an odd amount of cheer. He claps his hands together, once, like a proud parent. “It's not really so hard, it just takes a while.”

“And you do this shit every day!?”

Another laugh. A small smile creeps onto Dave's face. “I'm not sure what else I'd do. If I want to go somewhere, I have to.” There's a sort of sadness in his voice, a weariness. “By now, it's just second nature to me. Pull that shit apart, toss it in the back, and put the pedal to the metal.”

“Yeah,” Karkat pauses. Now, he considers the meaning of what he said. He also considers what he could say in the future, all the possible ways he could easily fuck up. He's aware that Dave likely won't rip off his head for a small mistake, but there's no stopping the little demon of anxiety. He can't quite quiet the voice in the back of his head, which tells him that he will invariably fuck this up. So, instead, he pulls out of the drive. He focuses on the soft, gritty crunch of the gravel beneath the tires of the car. The motor hums, putting out a low, droning tune.

Eventually, Dave breaks the silence. “How far away is this place, anyhow? I know we don't have any filming, but I've got a schedule to keep, health-wise.”

Not wanting to push his luck, Karkat leaves the statement unprodded. He supplies a straightforward answer, “Landsend County. It's where I'm from, about three hours away. Is that good for you?”

There's a moment of thought, followed by a shrug. Dave rolls his shoulders, loosening his otherwise tense posture. “Sounds fine to me.” He loosens his tie and unbuttons the top button of his shirt. “You mind if I go to sleep? Car rides go smoother when I'm not awake to be constantly reminded of that one time I almost fuckin’ died.”

Karkat nods. “Sure. Knock yourself the fuck out, no pun intended.”

“Sick.” Dave pulls a bright red handkerchief from his pocket. (It matches the color of his vest, and Karkat had initially mistaken it for a decorative pocket square, the sort that is sewn onto the garment. Then again, with funds equal to those of the StriLonde coffers, one could assume that Dave could afford an endless amount of pretty, multi-functional pocket fabrics.) He drops the cloth over his face, folds his hands over his chest, and swiftly falls into a light slumber.

 

 **22 December 2019**  
**Grubland Restaurant**  
8302 Mason St.  
Landsend County

After the customary greetings—the hugs and fond words exchanged between a father and son—Dave and Karkat are led to the private section. It's a small space, fitted with identical monochromatic décor to the rest of the establishment. Normally, it's rented out to wedding parties; today, it's simply a matter of good, old-fashioned nepotism. Karkat has ordered his favorite, Spicy Grub Pasta. It's a mix of the human cuisine of Southern India and Alternian food. Dave opted for standard, traditional, no-troll-ingredients-involved-whatsoever spaghetti, off of the “For Our Human Patrons” menu.

Now, left alone, with nothing of any note except for one another, the two men sit in awkward silence.

Karkat yawns.

Dave sneezes.

Little noises, back and forth, for what seems like forever.

Then, without any prompting—and, certainly, without any sort of warning—Dave offers some commentary. “Except for my usual crew, I  _know_ the rest of the cast hates me.” He sips his cider and shrugs. “It's not like it's a huge, earth-slamming secret. I'm a hardass with my films, a horrible perfectionist. So, who set you up to bring me here? Where's the camera?”

“I... What the fuck are you running your chitinous windhole about?” Karkat mumbles.

A long stretch of bitter, humorless laughter precedes Dave's reply. “You're really great at faking it. No one likes me, except for my old friends on staff. You're a fan, so I'm sure you know who I'm talking about. John, Jade, and Rose. The same ole’ crew, same faces and all. It's the sad little song, y'know? ‘All around me are familiar faces?’ You getting what I'm throwing down, dude?”

When he gets no immediate response, Dave forges ahead. “I've heard the backstage chatter. I can't walk, but I can hear. No one wants to actively spend time with me. Hell, I mentioned being willing to show up at one of Manlee's post-filming parties, and it disbanded faster than a toddler runs after an opened chocolate bar. So, why are you here? Who's paying you?”

“Damn, you cynical bastard! No one! I just figured I wanted to have lunch with some doofy fuck, whose movies I've always admired. Are you naturally this much of a self-loathing idiot?” Karkat shakes his head. “Whatever. Why don't we just talk about something different.”

“And you're not denying everyone hates me.”

“Well, do you  _pride_ yourself in that?”

Dave pauses. His brows furrow. He folds his hands on top of the table and twiddles his thumbs. “No... I guess I don't. I don't  _want_ to be hated. I just get pegged as a demanding guy. Probably because I am. You don't seem to mind, though, and I appreciate the hell out of that.”

“Well, thanks...” Karkat tries to avoid meeting Dave's gaze, now. He's actively fighting his own inner critic, a voice that tells him that he probably shouldn't talk to his own boss like this. What is he, if not a fresh face in a sea of established actors? Digging into his director—a man who is  _Dave goddamned Strider_ , no less—is probably not helping him. But, beneath that, there's an innate, inborn need to help. “Tell me about yourself. I know you make movies. I know you like to play music. What else is there to you?”

More silence. A pale hand, the palm rough and calloused, rubs a stubble-dusted chin. In the light, reflecting the grey tones of the room, these hairs look almost silver. (Trolls don't typically grow facial hair, so human facial hair is a baffling topic for Karkat.) “I guess I haven't thought much ‘bout that, to be real. Shit's been crazy since the crash, and I've spent most of my time just writing, editing, and directing.” He polishes off his cider, and begins to sip at the provided glass of ice water. “It's a good question, really...”

“Get some damn hobbies, you blundering bastard! Relax a little!” Karkat sighs. He shakes his head.

“Well, what do you like to do, besides act?”

“I play flute, I blog about movies, and I read.”

“Oh.” A small smile plays at the edges of Dave's lips. Its reason isn't apparent until he speaks. “I should play guitar some more. I used to be all over that shit. Y'know, when I was younger, I wanted to be a musician. I played piano, too.”

The fact takes Karkat by surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah.” There's a nostalgic grin firmly plastered on Dave's face, now. When he speaks, his voice is wistful; he loses himself to the past. Whether this is a bad thing or not is, at this exact moment, beyond Karkat's ability to grasp. “Music is just... It's really dope. It's relatable. It's common. You get a sick beat going, and it don't matter who you are. It's just... Primal, almost. You follow me? I'd make music, and people would react to it with this sort of deep, unfathomable appreciation. It was like I saved their life, and... God. It was just this wild fuckin‘ rush. Pump that goddamned serotonin straight to my brain with that shit.”

In a way, Dave's words have a pull on Karkat. It's a side of him he's never seen, a passion he's only witnessed in old interviews. He watches, intently, as an otherwise withdrawn and haggard man turns to an outwardly enthusiastic and energetic person. The look on his face—the borderline sullen quality, which so dramatically ages his face—is gone; he looks years younger.

“I guess I fed on it, y'know? It was a drug. Was it dangerous?” Dave shrugs. “Fuck if I know! It probably was. It was addictive as fuck, having just...” He's so engrossed in his own verbalized thoughts that, when the food arrives, he offers little more than an appreciative nod to the waiter. “I grew up being ignored. Nothing about me—” he presses his hands to his chest, continuing a trend of motioning to help hammer home his message, “—None of it mattered! I cried for food, I got a kick in the head. Maybe the crash just finally caught all my damned brain damage up to me. But that's just how it was. So, when people started paying attention to me, it was nice. I felt like someone. I felt like I mattered.”

He sighs. To Karkat's horror, the spark in Dave's eye and the nostalgic expression on his face begin to fade. “I guess... I've lost it. That admiration? It just ain't there, now. No one gives a fuck ‘bout the stories I'm telling. Maybe that's my fault. It probably is. I just... I... Ah. Fuck. I can't... The word I'm thinking of...” He snaps his fingers, and his free hand kneads his knuckles against his temple. “Miss. That's it. I missed it. I guess... I guess I still do.”

“If it helps, I still admire your work,” Karkat mutters.

First, there's a look of shock. Then, there's a soft smile. When he speaks, Dave's voice is more human than Karkat has ever heard. It's easy to read into his tone, to hear the hint of tears behind his words. “I really appreciate that, actually. That... That means a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dave begins to dig into his dinner, now. “Sorry for rambling. I just needed to talk. I know you ain't a real therapist, but... You've helped. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Karkat chances a glance at Dave. Heat rushes to his cheeks. “And... Uh... Fuck. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. It's just... I can't fucking believe I'm sitting here, across from  _the_ Dave goddamned Strider, eating at my Dad's restaurant.”

“I consider you a friend, so wouldn't that just be what any friend would do?” Immediately after saying this, a look of conflicted shock crosses Dave's face. It's as if he's aware he might have said too much. Rather than continue this line of discussion, he tries his best to steer away from it. “How's your food?”

Defeat.

Karkat lets Dave dictate the topic. He feels that he's gotten the point through, at least. For now, he'll go with the flow. He listens to Dave, and exchange small, meaningless banter. By the end of the meal, he feels as if he's grown closer with Dave, perhaps only on a superficial level, but, to him, it means the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OH MY GOD I DIDN'T MEAN TO MAKE THIS SO LONG HOLY SHIT**


	7. Tremolo (トレモロ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the little things that bring joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a radwimps song. [here's a link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wto9aTbigx4)

**22 December 2019**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

Dave Strider has two sets of glasses. The first, his shades, are used in public. They're good for keeping his photosensitivity in check, and he prefers how he looks in these over his primary pair. Nonetheless, when he's alone, or with friends, he wears his casual pair. They're on the dorkier side, what with their thick, exposed lenses and round frames. The arms are thick and black, much like his sunglasses, but the rims are made of thin silver.

He sits in a small alcove of the living room, polishing his old guitar. The surface is covered in dust, having seen little use for seven years. He works slowly. It’s a methodical grid-like approach. He works in sections, covering every bit of the guitar. The strings have been unwound, so that he can better access the wood, and he polished until he’s unable to see so much as a fingerprint on the surface.

As he works, he whistles to himself. He feels light. He feels free. It’s been years since he can remember this sensation, of having nothing in particular to do. Perhaps Karkat was right, he needed a change of pace.

He doesnt bother reviewing his extensive set notes, nor does he edit any of the script. Tonight, he merely enjoys his own company. When his cleaning is finished, and the strings have been restrung, he loses himself to music, which seems to have been caught in his own perfectionism for years.

* * *

**23 December 2019**  
**Lakeview Forest**  
Just outside of Skaia City  
Day 16 of filming

Dave directs with fervor, with an energy beyond what Karkat has yet seen. He gestures wildly, directing the flow of people like a skilled conductor.

The midday sun, though cool, has given way to a moderate warmth. The skies are clear, the formerly spongy ground has hardened, and the air is crisp. A gentle breeze rustles through the trees, and pine needles rain from the skies, like flower petals. Against this backdrop, in the shade of the coniferous canopy, Karkat stands, opposite Manlee. A prop gun is held in his hand, aimed squarely at his costar.

He pulls the trigger. A blank fires.

“Cut!”

The crew gathers around, whisking away both actors. Both are led away for makeup work.

Karkat sits still, even as Kanaya brushes fake blood onto his face. His clothes are whisked off, replaced with bloodied versions. He slurps at a cup of Slimey Cola. By now, the ice has melted; it's more akin to soda-flavored water. He watches, with vague interest, as John bustles about, like a loyal ant, carrying food to and fro. Perhaps it would be the normal job of an intern, but it seems John is more than happy to perform these menial tasks.

“Soda?”

Karkat opens his left eye, and finds Dave before him. The shoulders of the man's trademark red suit are dusted with fallen pine needles, his pants are caked with dried flakes of mud. In his free hand, he holds out a fresh can of soda.

“You do know I already have some, right?”

Dave smirks. “It's probably melted. Right?” He tosses the can. When Karkat catches it, he continues, “You're doing good, dude. Smooth action, clean lines, great flow. Keep it up.”

“Do you just have a cooler attached to you? Are you going around, tossing handouts to everyone?”

Pulling up to Karkat, Dave parks himself. “Yeah. Sure.” He folds his arms across his chest. Looking to his star, his brows furrow. “So, we're going to keep shooting, but we're taking a short break. Obviously. We need to clean up the site, make it look more like what it did last take. We've got some people out there, clearing off the needles and sprinkling some fake blood on the ground. It'll probably be a good hour or so, and, knowing Kanaya, you'll be done in about—”

“Ten minutes, sir,” Kanaya responds without hesitation.

“Yeah. So, until then, take a break. You deserve it.” Dave turns, flashing another wide smile as he leaves.

* * *

**24 December 2019**  
**Lakeview Forest**  
Just outside of Skaia City  
Day 17 of filming

There's a gap in work.

Everyone sits on the ground, drinking and eating. Members of the staff and crew have brought food, old family recipes and store-bought cookies. It's the day before Christmas, and the atmosphere is bright. It doesn't matter to anyone that they might be miles from home, perhaps even unable to make it back for the holidays. What matters is that, wrapped in layers of costumes and blankets, there's camaraderie. It's a human need, a desire to be with similar people, to connect with people.

And, amidst all this carefree mingling, Karkat notices two things. The first is that Kanaya and Rose are busy making out under a bit of mistletoe, held in the hand of a snickering Jake English. The second is that, several yards away from this party, Dave is alone. He sips at a mug of hot chocolate, and hunches over a stack of papers, red pen in hand. Presumably, this is the script. He works with fervor, editing as if it's all that keeps him alive.

Quietly, without being noticed by the otherwise bemused crowd, Karkat takes a slice of homemade apple pie. Several pies were brought by Jane, a member of the cast's catering crew. He also takes a few fresh vegetables—a handful of vivid green beans. These were offered up by Jade, the team's head of safety. He takes the plate to Dave, and squats beside him. Offering the food, he comments on the man's isolation, “What are you doing, sitting over here, like some sort of disparate hermit?”

An appreciative nod. Dave takes the plate, and quietly eats some of the food. He doesn't speak for a few minutes, absorbed in his work. Then, abruptly, he responds, “Would anyone over there even bother with me?” he smirks. “I doubt anyone even noticed I was gone.”

Karkat pulls his knees to his chest. “I did. Doesn't that count?”

“Clarification, then. No one _besides you_ noticed I was gone.” There's a flicker of a frown. “What're you here for, anyhow? Why not go back over there, to the cool kids' corner? Party it the fuck up! It's Christmas Eve!”

“I could say the same to you, dumbass. What're you doing by yourself, I ask again?”

“And I'll tell you, again, that I'm working. As I pay myself to do. And the sponsors of this film. Also pay me. To do.” He emphasizes his words by breaking them up into strangely spaced chunks. Behind the shades, red eyes nervously avoid making any sort of eye contact. He continues eating his food. “Besides, there's always a Christmas party at the StriLonde Manor. Everyone'll be invited, of course. That's the _de_ fuckin’ _facto_ film industry custom ‘round here. All stars, past and present, of any StriLonde production are invited to the Manor. We've been doing that shit since we first broke ground. Tiny, ugly, fluff-less little hatchlings, just bursting from our little shell world.”

“I get it,” Karkat says, “You're saving up all your energy for that.”

“No, I'm not going to engage in that, either. Too much media attention.”

“So, you're just going to fucking abandon your own goddamned yearly party? What're you doing for Christmas, then, you incomprehensible grub? Sulking, alone, in a corner? Pissing in someone's hot tub?”

Dave clicks his tongue. “Oh, damn, last one sounds fun. Wish I could. Bladder control and all. Life's like that sometimes. You get your entire lower spine crushed, and, then, _poof_! Piss problems.”

“That's way more than I wanted to hear. My aural nodes have been so brutally assaulted by this knowledge that I'm tempted to call authorities.”

“Great! You'll leave me alone, then?”

Karkat counters with his own laugh, now. Unlike Dave's bitter snickers, his is genuine. “No, actually.” From the pocket of his jacket, the same one he's been wearing for his scenes, he takes a notepad. It's meant as a prop, but he figures using a single page won't ruin its value. He scribbles down his address, then passes it to Dave. “If you want, you can drop by my place tomorrow. Dad's running the restaurant tomorrow, so he won't be there for the celebrations. Pretty standard. We can both be miserable, Scrooge-esque social pustules together.” A moment's pause, followed by a molten blush. It's powerful enough to spread upwards, tinting his horns a slight pink. “I mean... If you want to. No need to bring gifts. I don't have any cash for them, either. Not to insult your pay grade, but to somewhat insult your fucking pay grade.”

“Take the pay complaint up with my third cousin, Dirk. He's the company accountant.” Dave reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a cigarette, places it between his lips, and lights it. The pulsating orange tip lights his face, casting dancing shadows against pale skin. _It's almost otherworldly,_ Karkat finds himself thinking, as he watches the undulating interplay of light and dark. After a few seconds, he pulls the cigarette from his lips, and blows forth a cloud of smoke. He seems to take great care to avoid directing it in Karkat's direction. “Maybe. I'll see how I feel tomorrow. Rose has always hosted the party alone, with Jade's help. At least, she has for the past few years. It's a lot to handle.”

“I'd imagine it fucking would be.”

The cigarette is pressed back to Dave's lips. He breathes in. “It's a lot for _me_ to handle. I'm not as quick to the old draw, I guess. Too many things on my cheese platter and I'm a sputtering, rusty V-8 motor. Like, right now? I'm fine. You try and throw me into a room with thirty, forty people? Nah, bro, that's just a disaster.”

“That's fair.”

“You're not going to the party?”

Karkat scoffs at the mere suggestion. “That sort of social puerility isn't my forté, so to speak,” he shrugs. He lets his left leg extend outward. When he's done, he realizes he's probably dirtied the back of his leg. Kanaya will have his ass on a finely polished oak plaque for this, but he doesn't bother thinking of that now. “To put it in a way your aloof, cave-dwelling insect-slurper brain could understand? No. I wouldn't.”

“As the kids these days would say? Damn, mood.”

“I guess so.”

From the somewhat distant crowd, there's a murmur of laughter. A woman—tall, tan, and smiling wildly—approaches. Her long, black hair flows gracefully, blending into her black dress, and her green eyes are as bright as the sun. “What're the two of you doing over here, all alone!?” She giggles, and offers both men a chocolate chip cookie. “We're telling everyone our must-have from Santa!”

“You still believe in the the Ho-ho-homewrecker, Jade?” Dave quips.

The woman doesn't miss a beat. “No, but I believe that I'd be fine with any man breaking into my house if all he'll do is leave presents!”

“Fair enough.” Dave shrugs. He turns away from his work, and beckons for Karkat to follow him. “Come on, you shouty motherfucker. We're wanted on the main deck.”

As a small, satisfied smile creeps onto Karkat's face, he obeys the order. He accompanies the pair, and rejoins the festivities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m absolutely baffled by how many kudos this has but thank you!


	8. Skylark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Festive spirits give way to moments that are at once contemplative and absurd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU get some fluff! YOU get some fluff! EVERYONE gets some fucking FLUFF! also, [here's a link to the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8mJFbcfg-M).

**25 December 2019**  
**Karkat Vantas’ Apartment**  
Golden Hill Tower, Room 814  
915 E. Windward St.  
Eastern Skaia City

When the bell rings, Karkat answers eagerly.

The first time, it’s his next-door neighbor. An older troll, Ms. Warlow. She brings a plate of Grubby Gummy cookies. The second time, it’s the man six doors down, who tells Karkat that Christmas personally offends him. The third time, it’s exactly who he wants to see.

Dave Strider is clad in jeans and a hideous sweater. (Bright green, with alternating white and red bars of, respectively: flying reindeers, drunk elves, Christmas tree stumps, and broken candy canes. A line of mistletoe motifs divide each section.) The light snow outside, while not sticking to the streets, has lightly dusted his hair; the cold has turned his nose a pale pink. In his lap, he bears a gift: a large, unopened bottle of Alternian Orchards brand premium cider. It’s top shelf stuff, and a single bottle of this caliber could easily go for $200 or more. He also has a boxed set of four cups, each emblazoned with a different image of a crab.

“It took me forever to find the way up,” he explains, looking quite apologetic. He lifts his left leg by the thigh, maneuvering it so that the foot rests more securely in place on the rubber plate. “The front room security dude is about as helpful as a brain dead shrimp, and that’s one I’d presumably skewered, and am preparing to chow down on. It’s soaked in butter, and Gordon Ramsay might even say it’s so cooked it’s undead. ‘We only allow residents and visitors with a verified disability to use the elevator.’ What a load of lazy bullshit.”

“Oh.” Perhaps Karkat should have considered that he lives on the eighth floor prior to inviting Dave over. Then again, it simply wasn’t something he considered an issue. The building had an elevator, and he assumed no one would question Dave using it.

“Merry Christmas my ass. I asked the bastard, ‘Hey, pal, if I was able to walk up the stairs, don’t you think I would’ve ditched scooting around with my hands?’ He didn’t buy it, so I resorted to showing him my StriLonde ID card. Now, _that_ got his ass moving.” Dave shrugs. He wheels in, bouncing over the metal threshold. “Let’s just ignore that jingling fool, though, as we can crack open this booze. I nabbed it from Rose’s stash. She might not drink, but she enjoys collecting fine liquors. I suppose it’s just a strange, ironic habit. You have a bottle opener?”

Karkat retrieves the desired object from his kitchen drawer. The liquor opens easily, with a pleasant _pop_. By the time he’s done, Dave has already taken the glasses from the box. Two servings are poured, and a not-very-energetic toast is had.

“To being a hopeless loser,” Dave declares.

“To ignoring this bastard, who so stubbornly insists upon absolutely decimating the mood of any setting he might happen upon,” Karkat counters.

Then, it’s bottoms up.

After this, Dave is the first to speak. As he had before, he maneuvers through tight spaces by propelling himself off of the furniture. “Tiny little place. I like it. Reminds me of when I was in film school. I dormed it up with John, obviously. Shared a tiny ass little space, joked all the time about how we bet the handicap rooms had a whole lot more decorating space. How’s that for some dank irony?”

“Pretty solid,” Karkat concedes. “You went to Skaia U?”

“Skaia born and Skaia bred, and when I die I’ll be fuckin’ Skaia dead. We fight by land, and not by sea. Skaia Sloths we’ll always be.” Having recited the school’s fight song, with all the enthusiasm of a child ready for time-out, Dave shrugs. “You did, too, right? Graduated early, too. ‘Least that’s what your profile said.”

“God, fuck that damned song.” Karkat shakes his head. For the honor of being subjected to the Sloth’s bastardized version of every fight song to exist, he takes another gulp of cider. “I lived in the dorms by the football field. It sucked major shit. The constant chanting? Bullshit.”

“Fair.” Dave mirrors the action with his own glass. “I was invited to the campus a few times recently. I’ve let Rose go, instead. She makes better speeches, anyhow. I can’t handle the pressure of being the last thing some random kid hears before they’re shipped off to the real world. I don’t have advice to give, besides don’t get yourself crushed by a tractor trailer, and don’t eat improperly cooked  _fugu_.”

The last comment draws a laugh from Karkat. He’s aware of how harsh it is, how loud, but he doesn’t care, and Dave doesn’t seem to mind. “Have you ever eaten  _fugu_?”

“I'm a basic ass white man,” Dave responds. He reaches to his breast pocket, and pulls out a carton of cigarettes. After a brief moment of thought, he instead grabs a stick of nicotine gum. “I'm not touching that sort of shit with a pole the size of the Great Wall of goddamn China. If I'm gonna die—”

“Oh!  _If_ you die!?”

“ _When_ I die,” Dave corrects, seamlessly, “It won't be from eating some fish that looks like a giant oceanic hickey.”

Karkat finds himself nodding in agreement. Toxins present in foods such as  _fugu_ , aren't poisonous to trolls. In fact, trolls find  _fugu_ delicious! So, in all aspects, he can't really sympathize with this plight. Nonetheless, he acts as if he can. “I thought you said no gifts, by the way.” He tops off his glass of cider. The taste is pleasant—fruity, a bit smoky, and with a hint of the natural muskiness of the earth. While trolls can handle alcohol better than humans, he's a bit on the low end of the tolerance scale. Already, he can feel his body temperature rising.

“This ain't a gift,” shrugs Dave, “It's a standard offering. A ritual sacrifice to the gods of partying hard and being lonely and depressed on Christmas.” He swirls his glass. His gaze is locked on the contents, watching as the liquid churns. “Like I said, I don't expect that you have anything. I didn't when I showed up here. I didn't even know that you were supposed to get presents on Christmas. Up ‘til I was thirteen, I thought that was just some whackadoo myth, perpetuated by the big film industry.”

“Oh.”

“Fuck. Sorry. I did it again, didn't I? I killed the mood.” Dave buries his face in his hands.

Karkat is quick to comfort him. He reaches out, puts a hand on the man's shoulder, and offers a reassuring smile. (Perhaps it's more threatening than reassuring, what with his naturally pointed teeth. He likes to think he's doing the job he sets out to do, though.) “It's totally fucking fine.”

“Thanks.” It's a hollow response. Clearly, Dave isn't convinced that he's been absolved of his perceived social crime. Nonetheless, he literally shakes himself off and continues. He changes the topic. “Thanks for having me over, by the way. I don't think I've been invited to someone's house since, —” he counts on his fingers, “—maybe—” a brief pause, “—during the filming of _Sunslammer_?”

In his own head, Karkat, too, crunches the numbers. “I really can't fucking believe that  _no one_ would jump on the chance to dine with the haughty, auspicious director, Dave Strider. I mean, you're a film legend!”

“ _Was_ a film legend,” says Dave, waving his hand in the air. “I  _was_ a film legend. No one's taken me seriously since the accident. I mean...” He coughs. He rubs the back of his neck, and musses his already disheveled hair. Beneath the table, his leg shakes; when it hits the uneven leg of the dining surface, it wiggles it. “My brain took one hell of a beating in the crash. It's no secret I'm not the exact same clueless fuck-all I was. So, nah, most people don't really like hanging out with me. Maybe because I spit out sad shit like this.”

“Well, fuck, only you can change that, Dave.” Karkat rolls his shoulders. “I meant to ask what you wanted to eat, by the way. I forgot to, said ‘fuck this shit’, and threw a dead hecklebeast in the oven.”

“Hecklebeast?” The word leaves Dave's mouth slowly. His brows are furrowed.

“Gobblebird?” No response. Karkat keeps trying different names and descriptions. “Fat feathered bird? Large, hideous fowl? A...  _A turkey_!”

“You could've just said ‘turkey’, damn!” Dave laughs.

The tension in the air begins to clear.

“Well, I'm not well-versed in human phraseology of various species. You've got umpteen different names for barkbeasts, and Sufferer help me if I so much as mention that all purring mammals seem the same!” Karkat checks his phone. There's still three hours to go on the main course. “Anyhow, I'm a chrome-plated dumbass, and I didn't actually plan anything for us to do. Foresight was not today's merriment offering, so I guess we can just roll the fucking dice and see what sort of mindless activity comes up.”

Dave, in a complete non-sequitur, gestures to the sliding doors to the west. “Nice balcony.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. You want to sit outside? It's stopped snowing.”

“Sure.” Dave repositions himself. His movements are precise and rehearsed—he lifts, then shifts his body around before lowering himself back down. He sets his drink in his lap, allowing it to balance between his legs. Afterwards, he breezes past Karkat, opting to open the door on his own. He breathes in the fresh air, wheels out, and promptly lights a cigarette. “Don't bug me ‘bout smokin’,” he mutters, “Rose already has.”

“I won't.”

“Awesome.”

Karkat joins his guest outside.

The sun filters through thin, grey clouds, as if a shower curtain hangs loosely between the earth and the sun. Through tiny, unevenly spaced openings stream pillars of light. From this high up, it's easy to see the city. The handful of skyscrapers reflect the overcast skyscape, and the meandering labyrinth of power lines seem like the stitching of a large quilt.

Dave has stuck his arms through the slats of the safety rail, and rested them on the middle divider. He peers out, over the edge, and sighs. “Up here, no one knows you even exist,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything. “It's nice. People don't drive by your house real slow-like, taking photos and shit. You're just the everyday bastard, not minding what people think ‘bout'cha. Not hiding from the constant dribble of clueless paparazzos. You don't get all day phone calls. Must be nice.”

“There's a thing, called ‘vacation’, that is absolutely available to someone with your kind of money,” Karkat quips.

“Sure. Don't mean I'll be left alone, though. I manage loyalty deals, legal bullshit, and licensing. Theoretically, I could hire an assistant, but I'm not just going to trust some random Jimmy John Jimboy with all my information, my damn life's work. No, that's my shit. I'll hold onto that ‘til I'm dead, because that's what I'm worth.”

There's a beat of silence. The few remaining birds in the city chirp back and forth, like telephones.

Dave shakes his head. He plucks his cigarette from his lips, gently cradling it between his left hand's index and middle fingers. With a few flicks of his wrist, he both discards some ash from its smoldering tip and gestures to a small crowd below, who has gathered to gawk at a crashed car. “Look at that shit, Vantas. People don't give a damn. If a grown ass man can beat the shit out of a kid, ‘til he don't even know his own damn name, what's to say everyone ain't secretly a bastard? I mean, look at me! I'm one hell of a trip. You  _Phantom of the_ goddamned  _Opera_ me up. I'm a trauma package that any therapist would wet themselves for. Does that matter to anyone? Hell, no! Get the scoop, find those photos. We'll trash his career with the carefree giddiness of a schoolgirl licking a ant-infested lollipop.”

Karkat doesn't speak. He's not sure what to say, and it feels as if there's nothing  _to_ say.

“Sorry.” Dave looks away. “I got carried away again.”

Only now does Karkat respond, speaking the only way he knows how: from the heart. “No, I get it. I'd be pissed off, too, if people didn't give me some goddamned space. The paparazzi doesn't really give a fuck, because that's what they're paid to do. Like you pay me to act.” An alarm on his phone goes off; the stuffed mushroom appetizer is ready to be removed from the oven. “Let's go back inside,” suggests the troll, picking at the small fabric knots in his Skaia U sweatshirt.

“Reasonable suggestion. Lead the way,” Dave acquiesces. Rolling the cigarette between his fingers, he extinguishes it.

 

Several hours later, after the sun has set, and both men have imbibed their fill of overpriced booze, the tiny apartment fireplace is roaring. The pitiful, generic Christmas tree still sparkles, and the conversation continues to flow.

“Scooter yourself right on down to goddamn 7/11, Slurpee yo’self up some fuckin’ flavor ice,” Dave hiccups, giggling. “We got all the flavors. Cherry, limey, cola, piss, and salmonella.”

Karkat, red in the face and light in the head, bursts into laughter. “If you bring your own piss flavoring, we'll discount you! You want that Slurpee for even less than it already is, you fucking penny-pinching disaster being!? Well, God! Fuck! Shit! Have it for the price of the ice!”

The two men sit side-by-side on Karkat's sofa. Their empty plates are still on the coffee table, atop stacks of theater theory books. Their empty glasses lay on the floor, their cider stains mingling with the unremarkable beige of the throw rug. Dave's arm is thrown, casually, over the back; it brushes against Karkat's neck. From time to time, they'll exchange physical contact, —a brush of the hands, an accidental knocking together of heads—and every time Karkat blushes.

Dave adopts a deep voice, deeper than his usual higher-mid-pitch tone, “Billy goddamned fuckin’ Mays here, and I'm going to sell ya somethin’ hot this evenin’, folks, something so outrageous you'll blow your piddly little balls out trying to figure it out. We got for you, here, on QVC, some fuckin’ piss Slurpees. That's right. Piss Slurpees. Come in all sorts of colors. Well hydrated clear to dying of dehydration orange. You want these, bastard? We don't sell ‘em. The FDA won't let us.”

More laughter from Karkat. Here, in the moment, it's so easy to forget that he's speaking to his boss. Right now, he's sharing incoherent, Dadaist hijinks with a friend. If Sollux wasn't so busy, this is what they'd be doing. Their discussion would probably be different, but the meat of the interaction would remain the same. It's about camaraderie and fun. The atmosphere is jovial and fresh. The scent of turkey and baked goods hangs in the air, and the warmth of what might be a bit too much alcohol has settled in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

 **25 December 2019**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

Two women, having quietly stolen away from the heart of a lavish party, hide in a private bedroom. Plush, dark grey curtains are drawn, covering the balcony doors. The Gothic chandelier is dimmed. Atop a four-post canopy bed sit two women, each cradled in the other's arms. Neither is drunk, though, of the two, the troll is pleasantly buzzed.

“You looked fabulous tonight, dear,” whispers Kanaya, running her fingers through Rose's hair. She takes great care to avoid accidentally scratching her. Aside from her claws, it's well known that human skin is not quite as resilient as that of troll's. Her words are in reference to not only Rose's form, but to her dress. The flowing red garment is hung on a nearby hook; the human, now is in borrowed pajamas.

“And you, as well, looked ravishing,” Rose counters, smiling. She buries her face in the soft silk fabric of Kanaya's shirt. “Shouldn't we be hosting your soirée?”

Kanaya smirks. It's a gentle expression, with soft edges and full lips, stained in black licorice-flavored lipstick. “Do not worry yourself over that. Jade has us covered. Would you like to, perhaps, watch a movie?”

“Oh, now, only if it is a festive film of sufficiently detestable quality,” Rose tuts.

A bright, quiet laugh comes from Kanaya. She rises to her feet, opens the doors of the television cabinet, and takes out the entire  _Santa Claus_ trilogy. “Such as these?”

“Oh. Remarkable.” Rose grins and settles into the plush sheets.


	9. The Fragrance of Dark Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nursing a hangover at the home of your cast and crew. Wait.... what!?

**26 December 2019**  
**Karkat Vantas' Apartment**  
Golden Hill Tower, Room 814  
915 E. Skyward St.  
East Skaia City

Dave Strider wakes at his usual time, somewhere around 7:30, by habit. He finds himself in an unfamiliar place, spread out in an unfamiliar bed, and carefully tucked in. The mattress is both springy and unsupportive in every way. The metal parts inside dig into him, and it sags near the middle. To put it simply and harshly, it is both cheap and old. The sheets are rough against his skin, and are covered in tiny fabric picks. Nonetheless, a soft, plush blanket is spread out over him. It bears a motif of tiny dancing crabs.

He groans. His head is pounding. At this exact moment, he doesn't remember what's happened.

Curious, he looks around. The blinds are shut over a small window, and the sounds of the city echo, distant but present. Plaster walls are covered in an array of family photos and poster printouts. Flatteringly, most of the posters are for his movies— _Desire and Passion_ , _Cold Brew Gunslinger_ , and _The Ultimate Wasteland Warrior_ are some of the instantly recognizable ones. The smell of cinnamon hangs in the air, and the rattling buzz of a sputtering heating system reverberates through an otherwise silent space.

Out of habit, he shoves himself, so that he rolls over. He promptly crashes to the floor.

 

Bewildered and confused, Karkat, who had slept on the sofa, stumbles into his room. He finds Dave, dazed and vaguely pissed off, on the floor. “What? Did you forget about last night?” the troll yawns. He stretches his arms above his head and scratches at a stubborn itch on his back. In his hangover fugue state, he somewhat recognizes that he isn't wearing a shirt, only a pair of sweatpants, but he doesn't really care about this, now. “You party hard. I'm tempted to say you'd be a wild party animal, even. You need help?”

“No,” Dave huffs. He pulls himself around to his wheelchair, which sits nearby, and hoists himself up. His right leg is shaking. His fingers comb through his hair, trying to smooth it down, and unfocused eyes grope about the space. “Ugh. I didn't go home? Rose is gonna’ fuckin’ crucify me.”

“From what I've heard, that isn't different from much.” Karkat shrugs. He folds his arms across his chest, and notes a steady stream of red inching down Dave's right shin. “You're bleeding,” he points out. He approaches, pulling open a bedside drawer to retrieve some medical supplies. “You don't feel it?”

“Nope.” Dave shrugs. He watches Karkat patch up the wound with a mixture of interest and unease. “At least, not there.”

“Hm?” Karkat examines the small cut, rubs some disinfectant on, and runs the edge of one of his claws against the nearby wood. It's an old habit, a trick, taught to him by his father. It sharpens the claw slightly, allowing him to easily slice through the gauze. He wraps it with speed and precision. As a teenager, he'd manned a summer camp a few times. Injuries were common. “Not to be an absolute bullhead, or bark up the wrong organic tower, but wouldn't you just feel nothing?”

“Not necessarily.” A small sigh escapes Dave, and he folds his hands behind his head. “I can feel some small patches. It's spotty and random. There, though? Nothing. You're just throwing around dead weight.”

“Hm.” Figuring he should maybe start using words, Karkat elaborates on his monosyllabic reply. “How soon do you want to go home?”

“Fuck. I didn't think of that. I'm not doing it now, if that's what you're poking a stick at. I'm  _way_ too damn hungover for that.” As the bandaging is finished, Dave gently swats Karkat's hands away. He readjusts his leg on his own, tugging at his pants until the fabric falls flat. The shaking is slowing, but he continues to shift his position. “I'm going to take a stab in the dark and say that you're not ready to drive, either?”

“Oh, fuck, no,” growls the troll. “God, we got really fucked up last night.”

“We did? I don't recall.”

Figuring the man is kidding, Karkat levels a pointed glare at him. When it becomes clear that he's truly clueless, however, he softens. “Oh. Should I maybe be worried? Should I rush to the nearest telecommunication device, call up emergency services, and tell them you blacked out?”

“No, this is normal.” As he rubs the back of his neck, Dave winces. He wrenches his hand away, and stares at his twitching index finger. “Oh. Man. I'm so fucked. You won't tell anyone in the crew about this, right? That'd be some nasty shit to get out, they'd get all the wrong ideas. I mean, I'm your boss. I can't be involved with any of this personal relationship shit.”

“Kanaya is.”

“Oh, we all know that. But, me? I'm more... Let's just say I really don't need people thinking I'm some sort of weird creep. You understand?”

Karkat knows there's a reason, and he knows that it is, but that doesn't stop him from feeling a bit disappointed. “Yeah.”

“Great.” Dave yawns. He pulls off his sweater, revealing a sleeveless shirt beneath. His scars are on clear view, now, and it seems he doesn't mind. His right arm's burns run up, disappearing beneath the shirt, and inching a bit up the base of his neck. There's a quarter-sized indent at the center of his throat, and a wide array of faded surgical scars. “Can you tone down the heating? It's boiling hotter than Satan's intestinal tract in here.”

“Landlord dictates that.”

“Fuck.” Dave wheels forward. “Okay, well, how'd I end up in your bed?”

“You fell asleep on the sofa. I thought you might like something a little more comfortable, so I moved you in here.”

Busted.

Dave freezes. His shoulders visibly tense, and a bright red burns across his entire face. “Oh... Thanks. Yeah... My back appreciates that. I didn't realize... I mean... I  _should_ have realized you were probably that strong, but... Eh... I'm sorry. You...” He tugs at the elastic of his bracelet, allowing it to gently snap against his wrist. When this fails to soothe him, he reaches into his bag, and pulls out a bottle of pills. He rolls it between his palms. “Oh, God, you probably know I'm a metaphorical walking Frankenstein, now, right?”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

Dave shakes his head. He worries his lip, then switches gears. “Last night,” he says, seeming to roll the words around in his mouth before he even says them. He's playing safe, working cautiously, and gauging even the slightest hints of reaction on Karkat's face. “You said something about... You said you liked me.”

Now, it's Karkat's turn to blush. “Oh. Fuck. I mean, as a friend. And I like your work.”

Relief washes over Dave. He laughs. “Okay! Awesome! I was afraid you... I mean... It wouldn't work. Not us. Not now. And, I mean... You don't want all the package deals with me, anyhow. Bladder routines, regular surgical corrections, early arthritis? Nah. You got better shit to do than that. You're a solid dude, there's a whole ocean out there for you.”

Karkat bites his tongue, digging in until he tastes iron. He wants to correct Dave, to tell him that, in all honesty, he  _does_ like him. He wouldn't care what sort of things might be involved, he simply enjoys being with him, getting to know him, and sharing silent moments together. But, of course, even he knows the risk involved. So, instead, he smiles and nods. “Yeah! Of course!”

 

There’s a stiff breeze through the parking deck, and it can easily freeze to the bone. Still, Dave Strider relaxes outside, parked with his back to Karkat’s car. A cigarette hangs from his lips, and he’s busied himself with the task of staring at the sky. “Tell me,” he says, brows raised, “What do you want to do with your life, Karkat?”

“I’d like to be an actor, sir,” Karkat responds on instinct. He scuffs his shoe against some loose concrete. “Why?”

“The industry is going chew you out and spit you out like a baseball player gnaws on some fuckin’ chewing tobacco,” tuts Dave.

* * *

 **26 December 2019**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

The car idles in the gravel driveway. The two men stare at one another, both unwilling to make the first move or say the first word.

To Karkat, ‘goodbye’ is such a bittersweet word. He's had such a wonderful time with his idol, his friend. And, now, it's just a signal that it's all over. Once the words leave his lips, it's back to professionalism and formalities. Sure, in moments backstage, or perhaps even brief glimpses on set, they exchange banter, but it's nothing like it has been. There was an intimacy and understanding, one Karkat has never before felt. It's a wild, passionate connection. Regardless of if it's unrequited, it's addictive.

After several minutes of awkward silence, Dave coughs. He extends his hand. “Well, Karkat, it's been nice.”

Against Karkat's palm, the leather of the glove seems to blend into Dave's skin. His hands are rough, worn by years of use. The grip of his left hand is loose, a bit shaky. “It has.”

Dave withdraws his touch. He opens the door, and begins pulling the parts of his chair out. He props them against the side of the car as he puts it all together. “It's been a nice Christmas. Probably better than I've had in a while.”

“It has,” Karkat parrots. He bites his lip, breathes in, and goes for it. He has one life to live, and he's decided to grab it by the horns. “Would you like to, maybe, come back over some time?”

By now, Dave is already out. He adjusts his feet, making sure they're securely in place, before looking up. A small sound of bewilderment escapes him. “Huh. How about you come over here sometime? Easier access for me.”

“Makes sense.”

Dave offers a small smile and a thumbs up. He turns, easily cruising through the coarse groundcover. With his back to Karkat, he waves. “I’ll catch you around later, Karkat!”

“Yeah,” breathes the awestruck troll, “You, too...”

 

“It seems you had a nice time with Karkat,” Rose says, placing dinner on the table. “And, before you initiate any further prodding, I did, indeed, have a remarkable time with Kanaya.” She sits across from Dave, on the other end of a sizable but not ridiculously long table.

Dave begins to eat. He doesn’t really register what the food is, or even what it tastes like. He’s aware that it’s leftovers from the party, but he doesn’t really care. His mind is busy with other things. “How old is Kanaya?”

“Twenty-five,” Rose responds. “Why?”

“Ah. No reason.” Dave bows his head and pushes down a rising, unpleasant feeling. It’s more of a thought, really, a sensation that something is wrong with him. Why is he bothering to hang out with someone seven years his junior?

“You know,” Rose says, once again managing to somehow read Dave’s mind, “You’re both consenting adults. If you desire some sort of relationship, it is well within the realm of possibility. Furthermore, should Karkat also be interested, and it very well seems he might be, there is nothing really wrong with the arrangement. Technically, if one considers the fact that you were unconscious for a good amount of time following your accident, it might even be closer to five or six years between you.”

Dave is quick to rebuke the idea. “No way. He’s got bigger fish to fry, whatever his orientation.” He digs into his dinner again, now with newfound vigor. It’s a way to avoid speaking to Rose.

Still, his twin sister persists. “You have quite obviously cultivated a close relationship. He shows obvious signs of romantic attraction, and his entire demeanor is different when you’re around. It would take an absolute fool to not recognize what it means. Then again,” she laughs, “What am I saying? You’re most certainly that fool.”

“I think I resent that,” Dave speaks around a mouthful of turkey stuffing.

Rose smirks. “Whatever you decide, it’s ultimately your choice. I believe a relationship, regardless of how long it may last, would be good for you.” She flattens her hand against the table. By now, she’s already finished eating. She had eaten earlier, anyhow. “Think about it.” She walks off. Where her hand was, Dave finds a Visa gift card, emblazoned with a heart.


	10. Juke Box Saturday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day of travel brings some time for recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Song link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GK72A_eV8Lg)

**27 December 2019**  
**Lakeview Forest**  
Just outside of Skaia City  
Day 18 of filming

“You tell me that nothing in the world is truly alive, yet you, yourself, are. If life means nothing, then what does that mean for you? What qualifies as a human?” Karkat aims his gun, training it purposefully on his costar, Jake. In the darkness of the night, only the flickering light on the prop gun illuminates the human's face.

He smirks. “You underestimate me, Marseille. Perhaps you should be more concerned about how to save a life, rather than the meaning of it.” When Jake pulls the trigger on his own gun, a small blank fires.

The blank hits a specific point on Karkat's costume, bursting open a blood pack. As planned, Karkat stumbles back. He falls, disappearing over the edge of a small cliff, before landing on the thick padding below.

“Cut.” Dave wheels forward, visibly straining to get his chair to cooperate with him. The wheels snag on weeds and fumble with large, loose stones. He sways, uncertain and unbalanced, in his wheelchair. Several times, he loses his balance, and catches himself on an outstretched palm. Nonetheless, he makes it to Karkat, and offers him a lightly bloodied hand. “Good work. Perfect shot. We'll obviously clean up some shit in editing, but what we've got? Nice.”

Everyone on set relaxes. Jake spins his now-empty gun on his finger. “Yes, good show, chap! Wonderful!”

Dave pats Karkat on his back. Then, he turns. “Tomorrow we meet at the airport, plane fucks off around noon. We'll take the plane to Derse, a six hour nonstop ride, and we'll start our filming there. Get your plans set up for your homes. Remember, we'll be gone for three months.”

* * *

**28 December 2019**  
**Skaia Regional Airport**  
Boarding for flights SA0413 and LXA1203

Despite arriving only moments after Dave, Karkat loses his boss during the security check. He ends up sitting next to Rose in the boarding area, and waits for about an hour before Dave returns. By this point, Kanaya has made it, and has taken Karkat's seat, alongside Rose. The dejected troll is now at the end of the boarding aisle, alone, and using his carry-on suitcase to reserve Dave's handicap waiting spot.

Dave eventually approaches, alternating between pushing the left and right wheel with his right hand. Between pushes, he tries to slip on his left glove. He wears his plain glasses today, to avoid attention. His clothing is nondescript, and his beige slacks are about an inch too short, revealing pale pink socks. (Karkat's not sure if the socks came this way, or are the result of a laundry mishap.) He wears a thick black overcoat, with the back cut away, so that it more easily falls on his frame. A tag, bearing the label “IZ”, sticks from the back of the jacket, and, once Dave is within reach, Karkat quietly tucks the pesky fabric label in.

“Ah. They completed your fully body search, then?” Rose smirks.

Dave rolls his eyes. He adjusts his glasses, finishes pulling on his glove, and shrugs. “Well, it's not like I can just go through the metal detector in this,” he slaps the side of his wheelchair. “Amazing, I know, but a device made almost entirely out of metal? Yeah. That shit makes metal detectors go absolutely  _loco_. Everyone else made it through without much hassle, though, right?” He looks around, as if he expects confirmation, but forges ahead without any response. “Rose and I are flying privately. We're taking the same route, but we'll be going on a private Luxury Airlines jet. Same travel time and all that logistic shit, but it's just easier for... uh” noticing, now, that no one seems to care, Dave places a boarding pass into Karkat's hand. He leans over, so that his voice can be heard despite being little more than a whisper, “You and Kanaya are coming with us.”

* * *

**28 December 2019**  
**Flight LXA1203**  
Departing Skaia Regional Airport

The interior of the plane is spacious and posh. The six seats are made of white leather, and the floors are clear of any carpeting. Instead, lightweight hardwood has been used throughout the space. The aisles are open and clear, and there's a private bathroom at the back of the cabin. A small fridge, stocked with both pre-made meals (mostly sandwiches) and loose ingredients, as well as drinks and booze, is in the corner. Rose has already helped herself to a virgin margarita.

Off to the rear of the craft, there's a smaller room. It's set up as an office, and Dave has parked himself inside, on the plush two-seater bench, behind the table. Despite the plane's luxury, its size isn't nearly enough to accommodate Dave's chair. Instead, he uses a basic wheelchair, provided by the chartered airline. It's folded up, in the corner, just out of Dave's reach.

While Karkat spends some time shooting shit with Rose and Kanaya, he eventually grows bored. After thirty minutes, wanting a reprieve from the women's banter, he retreats to Dave's area.

“Hm?” Dave looks up. His brows furrow, and he sets aside his pen. His eyes dart to the clock, mounted over the entryway, before he nods to the empty seat at his side. “You can come and sit down. I won't bite.”

Unsure of what else to do, Karkat obeys. He takes his spot, folds his hands atop the plastic surface before him, and listens to the low hum of the engines. “How's it going?”

“Fine.” Dave's right leg trembles, brushing against Karkat's leg. It slowly extends outward, until the foot pokes out at the other end, before Dave notices the motion. He reaches out, tucks one hand behind the knee, and pulls the shaking limb back into place. “Why're you back here?”

“Rose and Kanaya are eating some fucking face,” Karkat shrugs.

Though he smiles, Dave doesn't laugh. “You won't find much better interaction here, I'm ‘fraid,” the human sighs.

“Why're we on a private jet?”

“On most public jets, I'm basically trapped in one spot.” Dave shrugs. He looks away from his work, and two sets of red eyes meet. (Often, Dave's eyes appear more of a light hazel; only in the perfect light do they turn red.) “Airplanes don't really like wheelchairs. They're big, bulky, and eat into their profit. So, you get your ass strapped to an aisle seat. It's a one-way ride. They put you in seat B15, and your ass will stay there until it's time to leave. Unfortunately, that'd mean I'd have to be chained to the same spot.”

“Oh.” Karkat falls silent. He'd never considered the intricacies of travel before, he just assumed it would be easy. “What about now, then?”

“It's mostly just safety. I'm not going to park my chair in the middle of the floor. If I need to move, I'll get Rose. Right now, I'm fine. I really only need to get up to piss, and that's done on a regular schedule. Inconvenient? Probably. But it's better than whatever sort of shit I'd deal with on a public airline. Besides, here, I'll get my chair back when we land. On a public jet, who knows where the fuck that ends up. Yeah. No. I enjoy my bodily autonomy, and, since I can afford to retain it, I will.” There's a brief pause, followed by a soft cough. “Sorry. Didn't mean to be so... uh... Harsh, I guess? I  forget most people just stand up and walk around.”

“Easy to forget, probably.”

“For me?” Dave smirks. “Totally.”

Karkat nods. He finds himself searching for something more to say, and eventually brings up the first thing he can think of. “I'm not an expert on human anatomy and all, but are your legs supposed to shake?”

“Yeah and nah,” shrugs the human. He runs his fingers through his hair and lifts himself, readjusting his position. “It's not something I'm controlling. It just happens. When your muscles don't do much work, they kind of want to do their own thing. If they're just the right way, they'll do a little jig. Sometimes, it hurts. Sometimes, it don't. It's all at the whims of whatever little demon decides to torture me for the day. They're pretty common, at least for me, and my type of injury. I just put my dumbass limbs back into a neutral position, and they'll settle down.”

“Your  _type_ of injury?” huffs Karkat. “A broken back's a fucking broken back, isn't it?”

“The spine is as enigmatic as the most _tsundere_ anime character, pal. Mine is pretty fucked, but just enough of it survived for some information to get sent through. I feel some parts of my body, but not others. It's all entirely too damn complicated for me to really give a fuck about, so I usually just act as if I'm dead from the chest down. And, function-wise, I pretty much am.” On a whim, Dave switches the topic. “Have you ever been on a private jet before?”

“I've never even been on a fucking plane before,” responds the troll.

“Oh. You feeling okay? My first few times on a plane were freaky as fuck. I'm afraid of heights.”

“You're...?”

“Long, sad, operatic childhood story. I'm afraid of heights. I hate ‘em. It's why I always keep the windows closed. Stunt work improved the whole fiasco, but my accident just brought it back. It'd be sucky if I survived everything I did, just to go down in a screeching metal bird, right?”

“Yeah.” Karkat considers the words. “I'll let you get back to work, now.”

“Thanks.”

 

About two hours later, after a brief nap, Karkat wakes to find Dave in the main area. Rose and Kanaya have retreated to the office, and Dave is engrossed in a book— _The Fundamentals of Visual Composition_. He sits in the generic, hospital-issue wheelchair. Now, it's apparent how much damage has been done. His back is crooked, and his body favors the right side. His left hand alternates between stillness and jerking, halting trembling. Upon closer inspection, it seems to only shake when he goes to turn the page. He mouths the words of the book to himself, stumbling often. Frustration is etched in the lines on his forehead.

“How much longer do we have?” Karkat yawns. He stretches his hands above his head.

Dave startles. He sets down the book, marking his spot with a red pen, before responding, “A good four hours. Time's a fickle bitch, though, so your little nap will probably help you keep the time zone monster away. Wish I could sleep on planes...” He rubs the back of his left hand. “Sorry. Uh. I'm probably weirding you out, right? Trolls already think humans are fucked up, and I'm sure looking at me is making your little think pan explode.” He parks himself beside Karkat and flexes his fingers. “Flights suck. They're better than driving, but I'd hate to be stuck on one for longer than ten hours.”

 

Five hours in, one and a half to go.

Dave has strapped himself into the bench seat in the main area. He continues to work on his notes and script. In the light of the cabin, his hair appears almost silver, and his eyes are a brilliant hazel. The pale scars on his face have become something beautiful and ethereal, seeming to reflect the light of the overhead lamps. He's lost in thought, and his shaking left hand taps out an erratic beat on the table. Dark shadows hang beneath eyes filled with a spark of wild, almost crazed enthusiasm. He works dutifully, stopping only when he notices that Karkat has once again grown weary. A small smile crosses his face. “You can lean against me, if you want. I don't mind too much. It'll keep my back from aching so damned much, since you'll be pushing against the curve.”

With bleary smile, Karkat agrees to the conditions. He rests his head against Dave's shoulder, feeling the firm muscle beneath his jacket, and closes his eyes. The scent of sterile materials, tobacco, cinnamon, and apples fills his nose. Soft strands of hair brush against his skin.

* * *

**28 December 2019**  
**Karkat's Temporary Residence**  
Ocean Pearl Resort, Room 114  
502 W. Palisade Ave.  
Derse

Karkat's room is both luxurious and large. The main area hosts an open concept living space, complete with a full kitchen, office, and entertaining area. A large window, opposite the entry, overlooks a bay, and the separate bedroom comes with its own top-grade bathroom. The shower and tub combo includes water jets, and a note on the front door indicates that any extra amenities will be charged directly to Dave's account.

Speaking of Dave, Karkat notes that the director's room is directly next to his. A single door, with a slide lock, separates them. For no real reason, Karkat leaves the portal unlocked.

He throws his bags onto the sofa, and collapses into the fluffy embrace of a high-backed armchair. Slipping off his shoes, he rubs his feet into the soft threads of a fine Oriental rug. He checks his itinerary.

Tomorrow, Dave will be hosting the cast and crew at the Riviera Smokehouse, a five-star restaurant nearby. It's a celebration of wrapping work in Skaia, and the commencement of film work in Derse. After this, filming will resume. For now, however, he is content with enjoying some alone time, and recuperating after a long plane ride.


	11. Old Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of a new chapter for _Study in Monochrome_ comes with some startling setbacks. When a heart is just beginning to open up and trust others, what damage could a break in that confidence do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for not-extremely-but-still-American-legally-underage drinking. The song is from _Phantom of the Paradise_ , because we all know I can't write a fic without referencing it. [Here's a link.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NR95denip-E)

**29 December 2019**  
**Riviera Smokehouse**  
302 Quinsy St.  
Derse

Dave looks stunning. He's clad in a full suit, made entirely of a shining red fabric, and set off with black velvet peak lapels. His black shoes are polished to a reflective shine. He roams through the restaurant, reserved just for the cast and crew tonight, and mingles. It's easy to see who he gets along with, and it's obvious which members of the crew aren't fond of him. It doesn't seem to bother him. He's most in his element when he's in a crowd, speaking with others, showing off an otherwise hidden personality.

It isn't until later, about two hours after the event has begun, that Dave pulls up to Karkat's table. In one smooth movement, he moves a chair away and parks himself in its spot. He looks well-rested, now, and his left hand doesn't shake quite as much. He smiles brightly, making a great show for the small number of paparazzi allowed into the event. “Glad to see we all made it here in one piece!”

“And, unfortunately, so did you,” Sollux grumbles.

Dave ignores the comment. “Well, filming starts tomorrow. Is everyone ready?”

“Not really,” Manlee yawns.

Karkat remains silent, but it doesn't save him from being noticed.

The two men exchange an odd, knowing gaze. Then, as swiftly as the moment began, it ends.

* * *

**30 December 2019**  
Downtown Derse  
Day 19 of filming

Between shots, Kanaya approaches Karkat. She gently taps him on the shoulder, a look of concern spread across her face. “Karkat, have you seen Mr. Strider today?” She opens her phone, and places it in Karkat's hands. “I am aware that you have some level of affections for him, and I advise that you perhaps consider that there has been... an unsavory news story posted about him. Quite recently, might I add.”

Karkat freezes. He believes he knows what this is about, and he's sure it's what he thinks it is, but he still fears looking down. It's still strange to look down, and to read what he reads.

“Dir. David Strider is a Bust!” reads a headline, right above a photo of Dave, hunched over in his wheelchair. The image is taken out of context, but it does the job—it leaks exactly what Dave has been trying to hide. Beneath this is an article, sprinkled with countless flagrant lies.

“Director David E. Strider, whose past work has included the award-winning _Age of Destruction_ has finally been spotted outside of a closely guarded public event. Thanks to a photo, obtained by TMZ from an anonymous insider source, we now know that the formerly indestructible young star has burned out. While rumors of the extent of his injuries have circulated for some time, only now have we obtained proof. The informer for this article is a cast member in Mr. Strider's upcoming film, _Study in Monochrome_ , and wishes to remain anonymous. However, he has provided us extremely reliable information.

“According to our anonymous informer, David Elizabeth Strider is a hack! Despite taking credit for major directing roles in his past few critical failures, it's obvious that he is in no shape to direct. Mr. Strider is paralyzed from the chest down, and incapacitated by a stroke. The cast member notes that he often speaks incoherently, demanding perfection despite poor working conditions for his workers. While Mr. Strider lives with his sister, in the famed StriLonde Manor, in Skaia City, his workers are paid criminally low wages. There are no stunt personnel, and all actors are forced to perform their own dangerous scenes.

“When TMZ reached out to sponsors of the newest StriLonde film, _Study in Monochrome_ , we were told that those involved were unaware of the cruelties the unhinged director subjects his staff to. Some sponsors, including the Grubs and Subs restaurant chain, have already pulled their support of the film.”

Karkat hands back the phone, buries his face in his hands, and groans.

Surely, it couldn't have been Sollux...

 

**A text message exchange between Karkat Vantas and Sollux Captor:**

Lisping Asshole Friend  
  
**Karkat Vantas:** Hey, asshole, you don't happen to know anything about the new TMZ article about Dave, do you? I really hope your answer is no, because I'd really hate to be your fucking kneecaps if it's not.  
  
**Sollux Captor:** Why the fuck would I know anything about that? I don't like the dude but I deleted all of my posts about him when you told me my contract said not to do that sort of shit.  
  
**Sollux Captor:** Why do you care anyhow KK? What do you like him or something?  
  
**Karkat Vantas:** Maybe I do. Why would you care? You promise me you didn't do this?  
  
**Sollux Captor:** I promise. I wouldn't fuck with Dave because he's your friend so that means he's my friend KK.  
  
**Karkat Vantas:** Fine. I'll believe you for now.

* * *

**30 December 2019**  
**Dave Strider's Temporary Residence**  
Ocean Pearl Resort, Room 112  
Derse

Dave Strider stares at the article, sent to him by Jade. His brows are furrowed, his mind is reeling, and everything he thought he'd learned in the past few days has been viciously murdered. Normally, he's not a wrathful person. Under most normal circumstances, he'd laugh off a dramatically wrong media leak. This one, though? This one is costing him money. His budget has been halved, and his plants have been completely fucked over. This won't be a three month filming session. Now, he has closer to one month, _if that_. If he really pushes it, perhaps he could squeeze out two.

The finances aren't what hurt him the most, though. What stings more than anything—hurts even more than the day he was blindsided by a tractor-trailer—is the destruction of trust. What are people, if not the promises they make? And, in that line of thought, what does breaking a promise say about a person? Dave Strider is a man who strives to live by his words, even if he can't always manage to remember what they were. He does his best to live by a standard, and the fact that others—people he has trusted and has paid—refuse to do the same is earth-shattering.

Rose already knows.

The entire crew knows, probably. The details that have been leaked could only have come from one person, and it just so happens that he's the last person Dave would ever want to even consider as a suspect.

Tonight, after drinking to the point of extreme inebriation, Dave crawls into his bed. He falls asleep, and part of him wishes that he doesn't wake up.

* * *

**31 December 2019**  
**Downtown Derse**  
Day 20 of filming

Before filming even begins, Karkat finds himself on set. He's ready to apologize, and he's willing to explain the situation, only to find himself immediately pinned to the wall of a cramped alleyway by Rose. He squirms, but this only manages to dig Rose's false nails deeper into him. Fortunately, his clothing is thick enough to block this, but it's still uncomfortable. “Jesus Christ! Rose, what the—!?”

“Listen to me, Karkat,” Rose says, her voice unnervingly calm, “Dave might have qualms about confronting and hurting you, but know in your extraterrestrial heart that I have no such reservations. I will ask you this question once, and, should you lie to me, be very, very assured that I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand?”

“Look, you crazy ass fucker, I came here to talk about the exact same thing,” Karkat mutters, “Jesus. Is that a fucking knife?”

Rose doesn’t respond. “Did you release any information about my brother to the press?”

“I’m crushing on your brother like a lovesick miniature barkbeast, yapping up the wrong fucking tree with skills so amateur they’d win a record on this godforsaken planet!” Karkat counters. “I swear I don’t know who did it, now let me go!”

Rose releases her grip.

Karkat falls to the ground, and quickly scrambles away. He knows the route well enough, and he finds himself in front of Dave’s trailer a few minutes later. He knocks on the door, and is immediately greeted by a hungover Dave Strider.

“Ah. Karkat. Just who I wanted to see.” Dave groans. He rubs his stubble-covered face. “You—”

“I swear I didn’t release any information,” Karkat blurts out, “I never would have. I fucking love working for you, even if you are a weird bastard, and I’d never do anything to sabotage StriLonde studios.”

Dave breathes a sigh of relief. Nonetheless, he remains on edge. “Okay. I’m willing to believe that, if only because I’ll lose my goddamned mind if I don’t. But that means someone else leaked...” He shakes his head. “I don’t have time for this, now. We need to get this done. We need to get the filming finished, wrap it, and make it back with enough money for the estate to stay afloat.” He scribbles a note on a post-it, and secures it to the side of his desk. “Thank you for letting me know. You’re dismissed.”

Karkat bows, and quietly departs from the space.

 

When filming wraps for the day, around 5:00 PM, Rose invites everyone back to the hotel for a New Year's party. Most of the crew takes her up on the offer, quickly piling into their respective transportation.

Karkat does not. He quietly returns to Dave's trailer. He knocks on the door. It's a tinny, metallic sound—more of a pop than a knock.

Dave answers hesitantly. “What?” he asks, his voice harsh. “What the fuck do you—?” When he sees the troll on the other side of the threshold, his tension melts. He rubs the back of his neck and backs away from the door, granting Karkat enough space to enter. “Sorry. People from the press have been hounding me. Come in.”

Karkat steps in, quickly shutting the door behind himself. “You're not going to the party?”

“I'm not really in a partying mood.” Dave shrugs. His movement is slow and halting, unlike the effortless motions Karkat is used to. A cursory glance reveals that the source is his left hand, which trembles whenever he seems to want to use it. “Fuckin’ shit.” From his bag, he grabs a bottle of pills. He dumps them into his hand, only to quickly end up dropping them. A low growl escapes him. He braces himself against the bent leg rest with his left hand, and plucks his pills from the floor with his right. He downs them eagerly, using a nearby cup of water, before looking to his newfound conversational partner. “Look, I'm going to have to ask you a huge favor, but how willing are you to take on more lines? I'm editing the whole script. We're cutting out parts we don't need, and we're merging them into other roles. Our budget is being shredded faster than a bored parrot rips up goddamned newspaper.”

“I'd be okay with that.”

“Great.” Dave backs up, and it now occurs to Karkat why his living spaces are always so sparsely furnished. Even with the most expert control, he needs a wider berth to turn. His arms need space to propel him forward, and his chair needs enough of a path to avoid knocking into things. It also occurs to him that, factoring in the length of Dave's legs, if he were to stand upright, he'd tower above the troll.

And, craving something more to speak about—a lighter topic—Karkat poses a question that's relevant to his thoughts, but unrelated to the current discussion. “How tall are you?”

“Uh...” Taken aback, Dave stammers. “You mean... in the chair? Not that tall, really.”

“No, dumbass,” Karkat can't help but laugh, “If you stood up, how tall would you be?”

“Mm.” As if counting, Dave flicks his fingers. He chews on his lip, frowns, and loses himself in thought for several minutes. Then, he answers, “I lost a little height with all the bone breaking and shit, but I'd probably be around five foot eleven, maybe a smidge shy of a six feet. Before the crash, I was—”

“Six foot one,” Karkat instinctively supplies. Then, he blushes. “I... uh... I know a lot of odd trivia.”

“You do.” Dave smirks. “So,” he, like Karkat, jumps to a different subject, “Why didn't _you_ go to the party?”

_Oh shit._

Karkat tries to play it off. He shrugs, he avoids Dave's knowing gaze. As immature as the man can be, he has a few years' worth more experience than the troll. “I just figured you'd... Fuck. Do you want the brutally honest answer, or...?”

Dave shifts in his seat. He folds his hands in his lap and looks up, expectantly. “Yeah. Honesty'd be pretty damn solid right now, dude.”

Claws rake through wiry hair. Grey skin turns pastel pink around the cheeks, and orange horns take on a slightly redder hue. “I... Uh... I thought you'd be lonely. You know, you, being the emo fucker you are, you wriggling fuck-all? I thought that it'd be kind of rude of me to leave you alone, on New Year's Eve, when all this bullshit is starting to combust. And, uh...” From his bag, which holds his script, personal belongings, and a few basic medical supplies, he pulls a case of Hardliner (price-wise, a mid-tier apple cider from a troll-run brewery). He sets it on the desk. “John sent me, too. I mean, that's secondary to this. But he told me to come and check on you, and gave me this shit to let you pour down your apparently dry intake chute.”

To his surprise, Dave smiles. It's a soft, oddly vulnerable expression. He removes his shades, clipping them to his collar, and switches them out for his plain glasses. From a small cabinet, at the back of the trailer, he takes a pair of crystal wine flutes. The shimmering glass is etched with ornate geometric designs, and the delicate stem is accented with a swirl of white within the glass. He places them down, wincing as the bottom of the glass in his left hand dings against the table. “Thanks for the honesty, then. C'mon. We might as well down this shit, right?”

Karkat nods. “Would you like me to pour?”

“My nerves are going absolutely haywire,” explains Dave. “Makes my hand tremors worse. So, short answer? Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Karkat pours two glasses, then raises his own. He neglects to mention that he is technically a year away from legal age; he drinks casually at home.

 _Clink_.

After downing his whole glass in one huge gulp, and getting a refill, Dave speaks up. “You don't know who leaked the information, do you?” he asks.

“No clue.” The answer is honest and direct. He doesn't mention his suspicions against Sollux, but he also trusts that his friend wouldn't have pulled this move

Dave takes the answer at face value. He nods, takes a sip of his alcohol, and rolls his shoulders. “You don't think I'm that bad, do you?”

“As bad as the article says? Fuck, no! You're not Satan. You demand a lot, but I'm guessing it's because you know what we're capable of.”

No comment. Dave shakes his head and wrings his hands together. His left leg bobs up and down, the foot bouncing against the footrest of his chair. There's not as much movement in it as there is in the right, and it calms by itself. “I guess I only really have a few friends ‘round here. Got you, ‘course... John, Rose, Jade, and Jane. You'd think I'd have more, maybe. I don't know. Guess I'm just a bitter old bastard, right? Why bother hanging out with me?”

“You always ask about this, asshole,” Karkat counters.

“Yeah, because I'm curious. What do you think you'll gain? I'm a brooding fuck, with near-zero control over two-thirds of my body. Is it money? Is that what you want? If it is, just ask. I'd be happy to hand it over, ‘cause you seem like a nice enough guy.” By now, Dave's hand has begun to calm, and he seems to have regained a fair amount of control over it. He runs a finger over the wheel of his chair, grazing the fingertip over the grooves. “Why do you care so damned much?”

By now, and with a pleasant warmth spreading through Karkat's body, the troll speaks with loosened lips, “Because I like you, jackass. I think, under that inexplicably vague demeanor, you're a nice guy. Why the fuck would I care about that other shit? You're the same human male I admired from afar from the moment I saw your first movie.”

Now, Dave blushes. His eyes dart away. “Oh.”

Realization sinks in. “Sorry. Was that... Was I too upfront?”

“No, no. I'm... I'm kind of flattered, really. I never would've thought anyone'd be interested in me after... Uh...” Dave reaches over and tops off Karkat's glass. “Seriously, I'm flattered, but I don't think... It probably wouldn't work. Not right now. Not with all the media attention. Unless...”

“Oh. Fuck. Yeah. I'm sorry, I'm an absolute shithead. I've lost my think-pan, haven't I?”

“No, I mean... For real? I like you, too. I guess. I don't know. I haven't dealt with feelings like this for a while, at least since before the accident. Not that I... Uh... Let's just talk about something else for now.”

Karkat swiftly agrees.

Despite the initial awkwardness, the conversation easily slides back into the casual realm. The two men return to exchanging thoughts and banter as if nothing had happened, until both are pleasantly inebriated.

About half an hour before midnight, with both men now seated on a sofa in the trailer, Dave yawns. “Fuck, man, I'm not making it until midnight. Fuck the New Year. I'm tired.” Perhaps unconsciously, or driven by a lack of thought, he pulls himself back. He falls back, naturally, until his head rests against Karkat's chest. His hair brushes in the troll's face, and his smell fills the startled troll's nose. His back is pressed into Karkat's abdomen, and the rigid reinforcements along his lower back can be easily felt. By the time Karkat has gained the presence of mind to protest, Dave is asleep.

And, for the time being, Karkat revels in the experience. There's an intimacy—a soft, loving touch—and a vulnerability in the moment. It brings a small smile to his face, and he's quick to draw the blanket, which is thrown over the back of the sofa, over both himself and a peacefully sleeping Dave Strider.


	12. Ray of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you get snowed in, what else is there to do but have a heart-to-heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this one is from Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. [Ray of Light link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H55Rnao2bbg)

**1 Janury 2020**  
**Downtown Derse**  
Dave Strider's personal trailer

Karkat wakes to the sound of sizzling sausage. The room is cold, and he's unsure of whether it's because he's alone, or if it's just the temperature. The lights are on, and the distant hum of a generator fills his mind. Slowly, his memories return to him, as does a mild headache. “Ah. Fuck.”

Dave responds with a quiet laugh. He's bundled in a thick overcoat—a modified trench coat, solid brown—and has a blanket over his legs. He takes a pan from a small plug-in cooktop, and scoops a serving of bacon onto two plates. With both of them balanced on his lap, he approaches Karkat, and sets one of the plates on the small coffee table in front of him. “Good mornin’, sunshine. We've been snowed in.” He gestures, now, to the window. Snow has fallen, up to just below the windowsill. A heat lamp, placed atop a damp towel on the floor, radiates a moderate amount of warmth, but it does nothing to offset the freezing air. “Filming's cancelled. Obviously. Looks like we're stuck here, though. So... Eat up.”

“Do you just...?”

“I always have some food arranged. Some raw ingredients are always stored in my trailers, just in case something locks me into this portable piece of shit.” As if to demonstrate, the metal roof emits a dull screech. Clumps of ice fall off, landing with a loud thud. The ground, itself, seems to shake. He eats with his fingers, swabbing the bacon around in a small pool of maple syrup before biting into it. “Welcome to Washington, I suppose. Go on, eat up. I'm not going to let you starve in the middle of my trailer. TMZ would be whacking their willies if I did.”

“If I eat,” proposes Karkat, “Will you never,  _ever_ say ‘whack a willie’ ever again?”

“Deal.” Dave extends a syrup-soaked hand, as well as a wide smile.

Karkat politely declines, gently nudging the hand away. “Yeah. Okay.” He nibbles at his breakfast, not daring to mention that he doesn't actually like bacon. “You haven't tried going outside?”

“I've tried opening the door, and it won't budge. Besides, what sort of shit do you think I'd do out there? I don't really like snow. I'm trapped inside, and it's cold as fuck.” By now, Dave has already finished his meal. He sets the emptied plate aside, atop a nearby decorative table. “So, if the real question is whether or not we're actually trapped, the answer is that  _I_ am trapped. Technically, depending on how ready and raring you are,  _you're_ not trapped.”

“Well, I don't really care too much, seeing as I'll just be going back to some stupid hotel room. You have anything good to drink here?”

“Coca-Cold Acid?”

Karkat nods. He catches the tossed can and pops it open, savoring the acrid taste that burns down the back of his throat. “Hey, Dave? Can I ask you a question?”

Understandably, Dave takes a moment to look around before nodding. “Hmph. Don't see why not.” He throws his arm over the back of his chair, twisting his body slightly in the process. “Shoot.”

“How long did it take you to start making movies again? I know your name is indecently squatting in the credits of all of your films, but that's a just a minor little courtesy, isn't it? I'm sure Rose would've wanted to put it there, anyhow. I mean...” Karkat turns away, burying his hands in his pockets, “If it was really that bad...”

“Funny enough, I think you said it was one of your favorites.  _Ice Over Fire_ was my first one after the accident.” Dave opens his laptop. He skims through some files, then turns the screen to face the troll. He smiles. “Late 2014. I wasn't quite as involved as I had been, but I was damn proud of what I had a hands-on role in.”

Displayed on the screen are images of Dave. There's a bright grin on his face in many of them, as he shares convivial moments with his staff. His chair is different. It's closer to a standard hospital model, with a much higher back and handles. Armrests seem to cage Dave in, though it seems he's comfortable enough. There's still a thin layer of bandaging on his right arm, continuing to his palm. There's a looseness in his posture, and a spark in his eye that Karkat just doesn't see, now.

Joining Karkat, on the other side of the desk, Dave speaks up. The tone in his voice is fond and nostalgic; these memories are pleasant, though there's an undercurrent of sadness. “I still had some balance issues,” he explains. “See, we've got the whole dance and jig, right? Pretty straightforward. Except for some movement in a few toes, I've got nothing from where the break was. That includes my torso. So,” Dave lifts himself to demonstrate. Below his chest, his body dangles, drawn only by gravity. When he lowers himself back down, he takes a moment to settle before continuing. “I guess it was easier, then. I was still considered a commercial and critical success.”

“You're still a commercial success.”

A grunt. Dave flips to the next image.

In front of a set piece, designed to resemble an old temple, he sits on the edge of a false balcony. His hands, thrown out behind him, support his body weight. He's mid-laugh. It's a photo Karkat recognizes. It was circulated in the press, alongside many others, for the promotion of the film.

“Now that I think about it...” Dave's hand runs along his chin. The stubble on it seems to indicate that he doesn't have a spare razor lying around. (Not that it would matter. Like most trolls, Karkat doesn't have any facial hair.) “Don't recall being quite so happy in a while. Maybe it was the rush, like someone opened the floodgates holding back River Lotsawater. It was nice being back out, working, feeling as normal as I ever will, y'know?” He flexes his fingers.

“Normal?”

“Well, at this point, the concept of _‘normal’_ is pretty fucked up,” air quotes emphasize the word, “We've fucked that concept so hard it's rocketed itself straight into ecstasy so extreme it died. The concept is dead. And I killed it.”

The next photo is of Dave, his expression serious, as he stands in front of another set. Heavy metal braces are around his legs, extending to his hips, and he leans heavily against a walker. The sweat on his brow indicates that this is an extremely difficult thing to do, and the fact that his chair is directly behind him seems to back it up.

“I still have those braces,” supplies the human male. “It used to be an obsession of mine. Walking again was essentially my  _raison d'être_ , to put it in a way so stuck up that you'd never be able extract it from my ass. It was this dumb idea, kind of camping out in the back of my head. An unwelcome camper, I guess. It was an asshole at the campsite of my brain, leaving its trash everywhere and never bothering to actually pay for its spot. I think...” Dave pauses.

Karkat flips to the next photo.

This time, it's a video. It's been taken on a phone, and is oriented vertically. Dave stands between two bars, clutching them with a white-knuckled grip. His weight is supported by a sling, which is looped into a heavy-duty harness and linked to the ceiling. Two unidentified individuals stand on either side, and another is behind him. The pair on the sides work together, manually moving his legs to emulate walking.

“Some people always want to walk again, and I'm not gonna give them the big old middle finger for that. I get it.” There's a soft, crunchy crumbling noise, as Dave grinds his cigarette against a porcelain ashtray. (The ashtray is undeniably hideous. It's shaped like a horse, with the actual tray portion nestled, grotesquely, in its mane.) “Really, I only stopped recently, ‘round two years ago. It was a sort of weird revelation, I guess. After enough falls to probably combine into a brain bruised more than a shaken up apple, it just clicked. I'll never walk again, not in any sort of reasonable or worthwhile way, and it's a waste of my time and energy to keep trying.”

“Isn't stem cell therapy an option?”

“It is. And it helped with my hand, but there's no fixing the hell a semi can inflict upon a human spine. You'd think that shit was cardboard. It just crumpled, really. Done. Alas, dear spine, I knew thee well. The main point is that I lack enough muscle to really move in any way that even  _resembles_ walking. People will fly with gas-propelled rockets out of their assholes before I walk.” Dave's voice is marked by a hint of anxiety. He rubs his palms against his knees and keeps his eyes wandering around the room. “I mean, I've sort of walked before. After the accident. I've kind of... uh... I've flung my dead weight around, sort of side-to-side-like, before. It's just really, really difficult, and it doesn't really help me. Hell, it's more dangerous for me to do that.”

Karkat nods and switches to the next photo.

Dave sits on a large aerobic ball. Rose is behind him, supporting him. Despite a heavy plastic brace around his abdomen, he still slouches forward. The look on his face is the sort that, at first, seems fine; on deeper inspection, it's a ruse, a smile covering for extreme frustration and discomfort.

“Not to brag,” the present-day Dave smirks, “But it takes a whole lot of strength to stand up. It's all upper body. I haven't used my legs in so long that, really, any weight on them would snap them faster than punching a twig. You'd be calling up a huge trauma team just to put them all back together.” Dave leans over. He closes the laptop, shakes his head, and folds his arms across his chest. “I'm just trying to get past it all, I guess. Talking about it helps.”

“I'm glad.” An honest, earnest smile crosses Karkat's face. “I'm glad to have helped. To be more transparent.”

“Glad you helped, too, Karkat,” says Dave, punching the troll on the shoulder. He pauses, just long enough to light another cigarette, before speaking again. “Are you cold?”

“Not really. It's comfortable in here. I mean, it's not a fucking sauna, but I'm not freezing.”

“Ah. So it's me.” From a nearby drawer, Dave takes another blanket. He throws it over his legs, stacking it on top of the one that's already in place. “Snapping your back isn't something I think we're supposed to survive. My body's absolutely fucked. I'm freezing.”

“My grandfather always said that the best cure for being cold is a hug,” Karkat muses aloud. When he realizes what he said, he blushes. “I didn't... Fuck. I didn't mean it that way.”

“That's fine.” Dave brushes past, parks next to the sofa, and lifts himself out of his chair. This time, he's careful to move in a way that keeps his blankets on his lap. “I don't think I'll be doing much work, since the internet in the room's down. If you want, there's some hot cocoa by the coffee maker. You want a cup?”

“Sure. Why the fuck not? You?”

“Yeah.”

There's a stretch of silence. It's comfortable and warm, almost inviting. There's a sense of understanding in it, an unspoken agreement that the pair doesn’t need to constantly converse to enjoy time together. When he returns, hot chocolate in hand, and sits on the sofa, the discussion resumes without hesitation.

Dave speaks first. “You know plenty about me, I guess,” he says, taking his warm mug. He takes a tentative sip and smiles. The expression seems to change his face entirely, even making him appear younger. “Tell me ‘bout yourself.” It's not a question, but it's not a demand.

Nonetheless, Karkat sees no reason to refuse the suggestion. “I grew up in the rough part of New Alternia City, about three hours from Skaia. My mom died when I was young, and my Dad and I moved to Landsend when I was seven. Not to be creepy, but I followed your career closely, and your work inspired my career choice.” A small sigh escapes the troll, and he taps his claws against the embellished wooden armrest of the sofa. “When I was younger, maybe thirteen, I took up saxophone. I wouldn't say I'm an expert, but I'm not a mind-numbing doofus about it.”

“My dad died when I was younger. My Mom—Rose's mom... or, rather, _our_ mom—moved out. I was raised by my older brother, but he wasn't much of a guardian. The minute I could legally move out, I did. I went to live with Rose.”

“I'm sorry about that.”

“What happened happened. I can't change time.” Dave breathes out, sending a cloud of smoke into the air. “From the restaurant, your father seems nice. He told me I seemed like a nice guy, but he also seemed to think we were dating.”

Karkat laughs, but it's more anxious than anything. “Yeah, Crabdad's embarrassing like that.”

To the troll's surprise, Dave shrugs. He presses his cigarette to his lips, and breathes in from it for a few seconds. Then, without much warning, he speaks. With every word, small puffs of smoke rise from his mouth. “I mean... Who knows? It might be in the cards, but... I'm not... I'm not ready. Not now. There's too many questions. My life hasn't been easy enough for me to just let some random extraterrestrial waltz on in, even if you seem plenty decent. I'm not saying I don't trust you, but I don't trust you. I've been hurt enough, I guess. Physically and feelings-wise.” He speaks with such frankness, in a way that's more vulnerable than Karkat has ever seen. “I have a favorite restaurant around here. It's a small, hole-in-the-wall place. Not very accessible, so you might end up having to push me around, but, if you're feeling it, we can go sometime.”

The pounding in Karkat's chest is almost overwhelming. His heart threatens to burst, and his mouth has suddenly gone dry. He licks his lips, nods, and—by some minor miracle—manages to eke out a decent reply, “Y-yeah. Yeah. That sounds great.”

“Cool. For now, why don't we watch a movie?” Dave responds, grinning.

Karkat nods in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always thanks for reading! i love all the comments and i'm still surprised i've gotten so much positive feedback!


	13. Lapis Philosophorum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bonds between siblings are ripe grounds for disagreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yet more music from fullmetal alchemist brotherhood. [here's a link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_439qLQzHs). enjoy a bit of dave's point of view. for the second half, if you want a better song for the scene, i suggest glenn miller's jazz song, [don't sit under the apple tree (with anyone else but me)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEUZi7hnuXQ).

**4 January 2020**  
**Dave Strider's Temporary Residence**  
Ocean Pearl Resort, Room 112  
Derse

“David, I understand that you feel as if you are unworthy of any affections, and I fully acknowledge the damage that your eldest brother inflicted upon you. And I really wish mother and I had known how terrible he was. That's a guilt I will always have,” Rose says. Despite the deeply personal nature of the discussion, she refuses to meet her brother's gaze. She stands in the corner of his hotel room, arms folded.

Dave, meanwhile, shrugs. He flicks some ash from his cigarette out the open hotel window, and stares at the slowly rotating ceiling fan. The wooden blades have been carved to resemble tropical ferns. “But?” he posits.

“But? Ah. Hm. You know me too well, now.  _But_ I think you may be making a hasty move. We still haven't determined who is leaking information, and I've already fielded calls from various media moguls, all of them hinting at more leaks. Karkat is, certainly, a nice young man. But he's just not someone we know very well.”

“You might not know him well.” Dave pauses. He coughs several times. It's a dry, aching cough, and it leaves his lungs feeling sore. It's a reminder that he should stop indulging in his habit, but its moral is being overpowered by stress. “I think I do, though. He's interested in the shit I've got to say, and he doesn't seem to care that I'm not the ideal sculpted marble man. I'm not looking to bone him, but I've got to say I'm mighty appreciative of the effort he puts in.” There's a pause, followed by a soft, bitter laugh. “He looks at me like a person, like something capable. He doesn't see me as some sort of good merit badge, some useless fucker who needs help doing everything, and that means  _something_. At least... it does to me.”

“And that's wonderful! I don't discourage these feelings, nor am I trying to dissuade you from forming meaningful bonds with people.” When the coffee maker goes off, Rose wanders over. She fixes herself a cup of tea, then sits on the sofa. “I'm suggesting you think critically. The information that has been released has only been known within our friend group, save for one exception. And that would be—”

Dave reacts with fire, he spits out his answer, coated in venom, and whips around in his chair. “Don't you fuckin’ dare say it. Don't even  _imply_ it. He... He wouldn't do that. I trust him.”

“And you trusted your brother.”

“That was different.  _I'm_ different, now.” One hand combs through platinum blond hair, and the other brings his cigarette to his mouth. He breathes in, then out. “This isn't the same. He wouldn't do that to me. He wouldn't.  _He wouldn't_.” He repeats the words, more for himself than his sister. “I get it. I have other friends. But they're... It's different. I know they care about me, but there's always this sense that something ain't right. They knew me before all this, they knew who I had been.”

“Again, I'm not here to tell you that you cannot be friends with Karkat. In fact, I think it'd be good for you. What I'm here to tell you is that, given the current state of the studio, it's unwise to continue investing so much stock in him. He's a new person, unproven, so to speak.” Rose sips at her tea. “Please, just think about it. Right now, we're against an entirely unknown assailant, working like a snake in the weeds. We can't just go and let everyone know secrets that they shouldn't.”

Dave grinds the cigarette against the cement of the windowsill, then pockets the thoroughly doused butt. He wheels to Rose. His thoughts are clouded by a fear he's intimately familiar with, and an overwhelming, burning rage covers it. He keeps going, until the footplates of his chair slam into the side of the sofa. Dully, beneath layers of conflict, he recognizes that he'll be paying for the damages; right now, he doesn't care. “You don't know me, and you don't know Karkat. You don't get to tell me that he's a traitor, and you don't have the goddamned rights to even fuckin’ consider for a second mentioning to me that he's the source of the leak. I... I...” A tightness takes hold of his chest and, with a sense of panic, he realizes he can't remember the word.

“Go through the alphabet, Dave.” Rose's response is calm and rehearsed, but not cold. She knows what she's doing, because she's done it for the past seven years. “Breathe in, then out. The more upset you get, the harder it is for your mind to clearly picture the word.”

A loud groan escapes the now-deflated Dave. He cradles his head in his hands and, after several minutes of straining to think of a word that he's sure is simple—something he knows, but can't recall—he breaks. A soft sob escapes him, and he doesn't resist when Rose places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “He's the last person I...” The word still eludes him.

Rose tries to help. “Understand?” she suggests, moving on when Dave shakes his head. “Empathize with? Connect to? Trust?”

“Trust!” Dave snaps. “That's it. He's the last person I... that I trust.” He speaks the word slowly, trying his best to commit it to his heart. It's a word with meaning, a word he values above all others. Truth. It's something his brother withheld from him for years, like affection and gentle contact. “Please... Let me have this, Rose. I need to have it.”

“I understand,” Rose says, her voice soft. It's a tone Dave recognizes. It's the same tone she used when he just woke up from his coma.

“I...” Between soft, stifled tears, the truth escapes. A mere whisper, it slips from his lips, and it drops like fire into his belly. “I love him...”

“I know.”

“Please... Please don't tell him.”

“I won't.”

“He just... He actually tries to understand me. He can't be the source of the leak. I can't lose that trust, not again.”

Rose nods. She reaches out, and softly embraces her brother. “I know, Dave. I know. Shh. If you want to trust him, go ahead and do so. I will withdraw my criticism, but maintain my skepticism. You are free to love who you wish, of course, as am I. Know that, regardless of how things go, I will always support you. I—” When Dave returns her embrace, she startles, but quickly regains her composure. “Come, now, Dave, your wailing is incredibly distracting. I am unable to block it with incredibly gay thoughts of my dear girlfriend.”

Between hiccuped sobs, Dave snickers. He lightly punches his sister on the shoulder.

* * *

 **5 January 2020**  
**Downtown Derse**  
Day 24 of filming

The clapper board snaps, and the actors disperse, gathering in their little friend groups. Dave watches, with a keen eye, and notes the way people cluster together. Karkat is with his usual gang—Kanaya, Rose, Jade, and John. Manlee is with his usual posse: Francois and Franco Bartel are from the camera crew, while the others—Bido, Gunter, and Ronald—are extras. Jake is hanging out with Dirk, of course, as the accountant had recently flown in. Nothing seems out of place. Nothing seems suspicious.

Still, Dave remains cautious. He wheels by Karkat, brushing his hand against the troll's as he passes.

The two meet in a narrow alley.

Karkat is clad in one of the more elaborate outfits, made for shots involving and immediately proceeding scenes of a lavish party. His face is hidden by a Lovecraftian masquerade mask, and he wears full white tie clothing. Gold embroidery accents his pure black jacket, and a red rose compliments his eyes. It's stunning work, really, how all the colors interplay. How the way his hair is sleeked back is mirrored in the unique cut of his tuxedo's coattails.

“Dave,” the troll's voice is soft, uncharacteristically so, and his tone is one of nervous anticipation. There's a small, hopeful smile on his face, a visage untouched by the bitterness and harsh realities of his boss' life. “You... wanted me? You could've just opened your stupid mouth and asked.”

“Taking a more subtle route.” Dave sticks his hands in his pockets. His breath rises into the air, visible against the freezing air. It stings his lungs to take a deep breath. There's something about cold, wet air that doesn't settle well with him. “What do you say we ditch this place after the filming ends today? Go down to the Sparkling Dew Brewery?”

Karkat licks his lip, with a slightly pointed black tongue. His smile widens, and he begins to radiate pure joy. It's refreshing to experience someone so enthusiastic and optimistic, in his own odd way. “That sounds fucking great, actually. I'd love to.”

“Great.” Dave is quick to depart, but a pleasant warmth rises within him as he does. He feels lightheaded, giddy, and free.

 

Back in his trailer, with Rose sitting across the desk from him, Dave Strider does something he hasn't done in quite some time. He carefully affixes a tie about his neck, and studies his appearance closely in a small desktop mirror. He scours his reflection, picking out all his scars and shrinking inward with each one. He runs his finger along a large, prominent line, which crosses through his brow. It's the remnants of one of the incisions for repairing his shattered eye socket, and it's one of his most obvious blemishes. It prevents hair from growing on that portion of his eyebrow, and the work done still didn't perfectly fix his misshapen facial structure.

Rose sighs. “David, calm down. You're going to give yourself an aneurysm. You look fine.”

A low, disgruntled sigh comes from Dave. He tugs at his shirt, until the collar covers the dimpled skin at the base of his neck, where a breathing tube once was. He smooths out stray strands of hair.

“Is this even a romantic endeavor?”

“Not explicitly,” admits Dave. He presses the fabric of his pants against his legs, flattening it. Beneath his fingers, he feels the imperfections in his skin, the portions of flesh that were carved out to replace what he'd lost to burns. “So, it's fine, right?”

“You look wonderful,” says Rose, smiling.

* * *

 **5 January 2020**  
**Sparkling Dew Brewery**  
2210 Scott's Pond Ave.  
Derse

“Thank you for choosing us for your date,” says an oppressively cheerful, pimple-faced human teenager. He smiles a wide, toothy grin, and places an empty brewery bottle, with a silk rose inside, on the table. He then sets down two bottles. One is a strong apple cider, for Dave, and the other is a virgin mead imitation. A tin plate of bread is also offered. “Please enjoy your complimentary Dew Brews!” With this, he bows, and skitters away.

Dave takes a slice of the bread and butters it. He watches Karkat closely, noting how sweat hangs on the troll's brow, and how those odd, red eyes never want to settle on one thing. After a few moments, he speaks. “You did some really good work today,” he says. He lifts himself some and repositions to avoid placing pressure on the same spot for too long. “You're good, is what I'm saying. I like how you work, you don't need constant direction, and I appreciate that.”

“Thank you.” Karkat bows his head slightly.

“You don't have to keep bothering with these little formalities, y'know. I don't care. I consider us equals.” Dave takes a sip of his drink, sloshing it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing. It has a strong, bitter, and somewhat earthy flavor. The aftertaste of alcohol is heavy, but Dave doesn't really mind. It's not what he prefers, but, for a complimentary bottle, it's delightful. “I hate power ladders. Eventually, the person at the top is going to slip, and their ass is going to come crashing down, killing everyone underneath. I prefer everyone working together, you feel? Art's a cooperative thing. You can't make something great if everyone is just following blind orders.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” There's eagerness in Karkat's voice, a willingness to learn. “You said this is your favorite place to come. Do you come to Derse often?”

“John's dad is in Seattle, pretty close to here. I'm not a frequent flier, but I'm familiar with the area.” Dave takes a moment to skim the menu. He already knows he'll be getting a burger, but it's an excuse to speak. “What're you getting?”

“The spicy scuttlebug looks good.”

“You like scuttlebug? It's a really crunchy, sweet thing. I'm not too big on it.” Dave leans back in his seat, taking care not to encroach too far into anyone else's territory. He's already taking up a bit too much space in the cramped little restaurant, but he's going to do his best to avoid being a nuisance. “I dabble in some of that troll cuisine, it's interesting shit. But scuttlebug? Nah. Not that you can't get it, I just don't like the texture.”

“I'm not really picky about that sort of stuff.” Karkat folds up his menu and sets it aside. “I like to fuck with human food, too. Your planet has such interesting ideas. Indian food is my personal favorite. Maybe it's my mutant blood, running amok and being generally annoying, but I love spicy food. Take a ladle of molten lava and dump it down my eagerly gaping chitinous windhole, and I'll gobble it up.”

Dave can't help but laugh. “Rose says Kanaya is similar, but she seems to prefer milder spices.” As an older woman passes behind him, Dave inches in, until his stomach is pressed to the table's edge. When she's passed, he allows himself to back out a bit. “Food is the great goddamned unification tool. Everyone eats. Trolls? Humans? Dogs? Cats? Don't matter. Everyone loves to gobble some shit down.”

Now, Karkat grins. “You're right. Don't let that go to your already obscenely inflated head.”

“‘Course I won't.” Without really thinking about it, Dave allows his hand to rest atop Karkat's. “What about desserts?”

“I'm partial to cold things. If I can't feel my chewing nodules, and I feel like I've been dumped, naked, in the middle of the fucking Arctic, I'm happy. I love ice cream, especially—”

“Let me guess,” interjects Dave, feeling daring, “You strike me as a mint chocolate chip person.”

“Oh, fuck,  _yes,_ ” Karkat nearly moans. “It's already frozen, but the mint? That just adds even more numbing. It's great!”

There's a sort of pride, which swirls in Dave's mind, at the successful guessing game. “Then, at the end, I'll order us the ice cream cake. You can take what we don't eat home. Sound solid?”

“As solid as the frozen dairy product our dessert will be made out of.”

“God, you say some weird shit.”

“And you don't, fuckface?”

Dave pauses, smirks, and snickers. “Okay. Touché. You got me, dude. Checkmate my ass right out the fuckin’ door.”

The two men share a hearty laugh.

In Dave's heart, there's a fluttering, stunning sensation. A peaceful calm fells over his being, stifling his usual worries and fears. He feels relaxed, now. He feels free to be himself, to laugh more freely and dole out expressions of joy without fear of rebuke. The strict mannerisms his brother taught him have been shed, if only for this brief moment, and, until the date is over, he grants himself permission to be as carefree and jovial as he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [slow burn begins to vaguely sizzle]


	14. American Patrol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As filming continues to progress, so does the beast in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmm have some more good glenn miller jazz [hyperlink kool-aid man voice] [ooooooh yeaaaaaaaah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EAVejLjXVdw). this is a rare instance where i chose the song first and then wrote the chapter.

**10 January 2020**  
**Griddy's Donuts**  
1007 Umbrella Way  
Downtown Derse  
Day 29 of filming

Manlee Morris isn't a talkative troll. At least, as far as Karkat is concerned, he isn't. He's never interacted with those outside of his tight little group, and only speaks to those beneath him in the billing when he deems it necessary. As it turns out, Karkat, despite being alongside Manlee for above-title billing, (alongside Jake English) just isn't important enough to be graced with the established actor's presence. So, when his costar suddenly takes an interest in him, Karkat listens. “You're third on the billing, right? Beneath Jake and I?” The troll loudly slurps at a can of Red Bull. As he often requests, it's in a plain brown cozy, and bent straw he uses mirrors his unbroken left horn.

For the first time, Karkat actually takes a good look at Manlee. As a highblood, his ears are more akin to fins, and his brows are naturally ridged. He has a prominent nose, a slight overbite, and a pair of polished fangs. His skin, while the same grey as Karkat's, is marked by natural freckles. He's broad-shouldered and tall, which makes talking to him even more intimidating.

Professionally, Manlee is a fairly established actor. He's not, say, a Jack Black; no, he's more of a Yuri Lowenthal. While he's not widely known, his name would be understood within the right circles. The thirty-something actor has made a name for himself in the realm of gritty mysteries and dark science fiction works. His presence on the cast brings a fair amount of cult followers, which increases the overall value of _Study in Monochrome_. From a personal standpoint, however, Karkat has never really followed this particular actor's career. Manlee simply wasn't in films he was interested in, and, through interviews, Karkat found that the troll projected quite a pompous and overly confident personality. Somehow, he's the embodiment of an even more puffed-up fantasy film giant, Eridan Ampora.

“Hey, kid, I'm talking to you,” Manlee demands a response, only further muddying his image.

Karkat shrugs. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I was reading my script.”

“Oh. So you care about that shit? This entire thing is so poorly written, I could give my almost freshly hatched wriggler a crayon, and she'd knock out a five-act play more coherent.” A snort of laughter punctuates this commentary. “You really like that control freak, though, don't you?”

The instinctive, natural side of Karkat wants to land a solid punch across Manlee's smirking visage. The professional side of Karkat, however, forces him to stay calm. Through gritted teeth, he responds, “I think he's a good director, yes.”

Another nonchalant shrug. Finishing his drink, Manlee pockets the cozy, then crushes the can against his knee. “Have you ever met my daughter? She's been on set a few times.” The man opens his phone, flicks through some photos, and hands it to Karkat.

Displayed on the screen is a young wriggler, with a deep purple body, and wide, sparkling eyes. A smile is on her face. Having completed her third molt, she has two legs, which are planted on the floor. Between these chubby legs is an expensive-looking dollhouse.

“Her name's Jolene. Named her after a cute human I worked with on another movie.” Manlee winks. “She comes to set sometimes, with my wife. Not that she really cares where she is, as long as I'm around.”

Karkat doesn't respond. If he dared to, he knows he'd just say something terrible.

“Anyhow,” his costar continues, blissfully unaware of the fact that he's an unwelcome conversational partner, “I was just dropping by to say that you seem to spend a whole lot of time with Dave. I'd stay away, if I was you. Never know who's watching. You're really fraternizing with the enemy.”

“And why the fuck do you hate him so much?” Karkat quips.

“He's annoying, demanding, and bossy. I've worked with literal human toddlers more likable than that man. He has no sense of class. He's not entitled to my best performance by virtue of physical status. I don't just throw away my performances on people I don't care for.” Manlee shrugs. If there's one thing Karkat can say, it's that he has morals, however fucked they may be. “Besides, it's just funny to watch him squirm, don't you think?”

“Not really.” Karkat's hands ball into fists. His claws begin to dig into his palms.

“Oh. Well, I do. A few members of the cast do, actually.” Only now does it seem to register with Manlee that his discussion isn't welcome. He waves his hand in the air, dismissively, as he speaks his parting words, “Report me to him, for all I care. I'm not the only one doing the talking. It's all a big joke, anyhow. Loosen up. It's not like Dave'll care in ten years, when his studio's tanked and he's working at the local dollar shop.”

Only after Manlee is out of direct sight does Karkat turn and run. He thinks about heading to Dave's trailer, a mere two blocks away, but finds himself rejecting the idea. Right now, Dave is already stressed enough. Moreover, what's to say he'll even trust the information? So, instead, Karkat goes to the next best person.

 

 **10 January 2020**  
**Downtown Derse**  
Kanaya Maryam's Trailer

“Ah, Karkat.” A jade-eyed troll smiles. She looks up, to her friend, and sets aside her seamstress work. “You could have, perhaps, knocked, but I assume this is fine, too. What is currently happening?”

“Manlee is the one leaking the info,” Karkat blurts. Words tumble from his mouth, whether he wants them to or not. “He says there are others involved, but I know that Manlee is one of them. They're leaking info about Dave, and I'm so fucked up I don't even have an idea what I should do. _What do I do?_ ”

Kanaya sighs. After retrieving a soda from the fridge, and handing it to her friend, she sits in a plain black armchair. The way the backrest frames her figure is almost otherworldly, appearing like a high-collared cape, and mimicking the way she often upturns her hair. “You did not hesitate to hit me with quite a brick immediately upon entry, did you? Well, sit down. Let's discuss the problem.”

Obeying the command, Karkat sits across from Kanaya, on a white sofa. He wrings his hands together. “I want to tell Dave, because I know he'd want to figure out who the low-life bastard slitherbeast in the proverbial weeds of hell is, too, but I'm not sure now is a good time. I mean, he's obviously stressed. Any decently empathetic individual with so much as a quarter of their intellectual functions could see that. Hell, a Roomba could see it.”

“And you assume that, rather than relieving stress, the reveal will place more upon Dave?” Kanaya asks, brow arched. “This is, indeed, a situation. And is it right for me to assume that you have feelings for Dave?”

“Rose hasn't already told you? I doubt that.”

Kanaya smirks. “You have caught me in my lie. I have been made aware of your crush, but I cannot possibly chide you for your actions. After all, I am rooming with the assistant director.”

“Yeah. Now, what do I do?”

“Have you figured out who else might be providing information?”

Karkat pauses. He considers the options, but he also acknowledges that he doesn't have a decent grip on the crew's gossip grapevine. He's not a person with a finger on the pulse of the entire cast and crew; if anyone was, it'd be Sollux, if only for the free booze that vague companionship tends to offer. As his claws tap against the faux leather seat, he shakes his head, “No. I don't.”

“Might I suggest you gather information on others,  _then_ report to Dave?”

The weight on Karkat's shoulders eases. “That's a great idea. If I knew it wouldn't be super weird, and if I actually had a desire to do so, I'd kiss you, Kanaya. You're the best.”

A wide, comforting smile crosses Kanaya's face. “Always happy to help, Karkat. And, before you go, Rose told me to inform you of a slight costuming change. I'll let you know the details later, but I'd like for you to drop off your undamaged coat as soon as possible. I believe you took it with you to your hotel room, and I need it back. Not immediately, but very soon.”

“No problem.” Karkat nods, turns, and departs.

* * *

**12 January 2020**  
**Downtown Derse**  
Day 31 of filming

After filming for the film's fifth scene wraps, a few members of the cast and crew gather together, forming a little huddle of smokers. Cigarettes, cigarillos, and cigars are produced, and everyone in the group indulges. Karkat has never smoked, but Sollux enjoys cigarillos, and he feels the need to talk to his friend. So, for now, he endures the plume of smog.

“I hear that you're doing pretty good, KK.” Sollux waggles his brows. “And Manlee is saying he thinks you're pretty good, solid potential.”

“Really?” Karkat can't help but be surprised by this comment. Of all the people he'd expect to hear praise from, Manlee is the last. “Nice to hear, I guess. I'm no big fan of his, that pompous bastard, but I'll take the compliment.”

“Mhm.”

“Have you heard anything more about the rumor mill?”

Sollux shrugs. He runs his fingers through his hair, then rubs his chin. For some reason, he's one of the few trolls capable of growing facial hair. He normally shaves it, but he’s been letting it grow out lately. Unlike humans, however, his facial hair is in a set shape. The soul patch on his chin is filling out, an it makes him look like and even bigger nerd than usual. Like the hair on his head, it's straight, but wiry. “You're still chasing after that? I'd just drop it.”

“Why?” There's an edge to Karkat's voice, one he didn't actually intend to let slip. “Why is everyone so damned cagey about this?”

“Look, KK, I swear to gog I'm not involved in this bullshit. But you shouldn't get yourself into it. There're some people with some major grudges against your boyfriend, and I'm not sure they'd really appreciate if you got in their way.” Without really thinking about it, Sollux pulls his packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He tosses it back and forth, between his hands.

“First of all,” counters Karkat, “We're not dating. We're friends. Secondly, I'm not sure who'd have a grudge against Dave.”

“Oh, there's plenty you don't know about him. He might throw sick beats, but he's made a few enemies.” A cloud of smoke falls from Sollux's slightly parted lips, and a strange look dances in his eyes. “Everyone's got some shit in their past, and Dave's no exception. Hell, we both know you're not.”

Though he considers the words, a part of Karkat doesn't want to believe them. Still, he responds, “Fair.”

“Yeah.” Sollux throws his arm over his friend's shoulder, and offers a wide grin. “Anyhow, speaking of grudges, don't you still owe me some beer?”

“I'm pretty sure I've paid off my last bullshit debt.”

From his pocket, Sollux pulls a crumpled up note. On the page, in what is undeniably Karkat's writing, is an IOU. “Nope! Not this one!”

“I need to stop leaving literal IOU's, don't I?”

“Heh. Probably.” The lisping troll winks.

Karkat groans.

* * *

**13 January 2020**  
**“Dave Strider's Salacious Affair!”**  
Headline and text from NeoAlternian Entertainment News [NAEN]  
Day 32 of filming

Following very credible accusations of abusing and underpaying his staff, disgraced director David E. Strider has another mark added to his record. Reports from inside sources suggest that he is currently engaging in romantic relations with one of the stars of his upcoming film, _Study in Monochrome_. A photo appears to show the director on a date with young and upcoming troll actor, Karkat Vantas, during filming in Derse, Washington.

While some of the informants have asked to remain anonymous, one of them, Howard Toussant, has voluntarily revealed his identity. Toussant was working on _Study in Monochrome_ , since day one, and has told us that he was suddenly and unexpectedly fired. He received no severance package, and was unaware of a reason for the termination. The former sound engineer is now stranded in downtown Derse, and has said that he is not the only victim of David Strider's unscrupulous financial practices. According to Toussant, at least seven others were also unceremoniously fired.

The staff of NAEN have reached out to sponsors of the upcoming StriLonde film, but have received no response. The public financial records of the independent studio suggest that, following the last leak of information regarding Mr. Strider, the sponsored budget of _Study in Monochrome_ dropped considerably. Several major networks, including TrollVision Television, a former StriLonde supporter, have publicly expressed their disdain for the film, and refused screening of it on their channels.

In keeping with the traditions of NAEN, we will continue to update you on this juicy scoop!  
**NeoAlternian Entertainment News: Bringing you all the wriggling gossip!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you suddenly introduce one of the recurring characters for real but only in chapter fucking whatever. fun fact: manlee morris is named for (a.) a pun on the word manly and (b.) the joja cola guy in fuckin stardew valley lol. he's vaguely based off of solf j. kimblee.


	15. Long, Long, Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interview stands between Dave Strider and the future of his business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still amazed this has over 60 kudos. thanks, everyone! i know we haven't seen much davekat action in a few chapters but shhhhhh we're getting there. the song in this title is by the beatles, and [here's the link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9vUCdfwlgw).

**15 January 2020**  
**Dave Strider's Trailer**  
Downtown Derse  
Day 34 of filming

“I warned you that this might happen again, did I not?” inquires Rose. “Quite explicitly, I laid out for you that spending excessive time with Karkat would certainly get out, regardless of whoever might be doing the snitching. Now, we have come full circle, and it appears you have broken yet another mirror. Hold still. I can hardly pluck this glass out of your hand with you wobbling about like that.”

Dave flinches. He refuses to watch the scene; as contradictory as it may seem, he’s never been fond of the sight of blood. He won’t faint from it, but it makes his stomach churn. “You’re also the one who encouraged me to spend more time with him. If anyone is running around the paradoxical, half-dead cherry tree with a goddamned axe, it’s you. I’ve done nothing wrong—OW! FUCK! Can you possibly consider not acting like a heartless Nanny McBanshee all the time?”

“I have considered it, and decided it is not the best support that I can provide you. Your psychological makeup requires tough love, it seems.” Rose tuts. There’s a soft clattering, and another shard drops into a plastic pan. “You have really managed to fuck yourself over this time, Dave. You’re incredibly lucky you didn’t damage any nerves.”

“Yeah, you say that every time. I don’t think it really—SHIT!” Dave snaps his gaze back to his sister, leveling a pointed glare at her. “Come on, cut me some damn slack with this.” After he finishes speaking, he turns his head away. “How much longer do I have to sit here, anyhow?”

“Medically speaking?” The smirk in Rose’s voice is audible. “Indefinitely. How fast will I complete this task? That is a different question, and I posit a tentative estimate to you, of roughly five more minutes. You’re lucky I know first aid, or else we’d be driving you to the hospital, my dearest, dumbest brother.”

Though the snide comment elicits a snicker, Dave quickly returns to a more somber mood. “I’m your last living brother, Rose.”

“True.” Rose nods. “Are you quite sure you wish to indulge the whims of the paparazzi? Doing this interview will—”

“We’ve either got a really fuckin’ good idea on our hands, or we’re going to smash face-first into a sticky spider web of bullshit,” shrugs Dave. “Either way, we need sponsorships for the film. You almost done with the glass picking? We’ve got ten minutes before we go on air.”

“I’m simply stitching up the last few wounds, now,” hums Rose.

Dave nods.

 

 **15 January 2020**  
**Downtown Derse**  
Scene of an interview for Troll Media Direct (TMDco)

The interviewer is a well-known woman, by the name of Calico Triyad. An eternally composed and infallibly professional troll, she sits, upright, atop her stool. She is outlined by a TMDco backdrop, her perfectly straight horns looking a bit like the tines of a fork. Her impeccably maintained and naturally arched brows are furrowed, and she introduces the segment. “Hello, my name is Calico Triyad,” she announces, “I am here, with human director David Elizabeth Strider, to speak about recent accusations of poor business practices and physical health. This segment is brought to you by TMDco, Troll Media Direct, the horns with the scoop. Mr. Strider—”

“Please,” insists Dave, tugging at the sleeves of his red coat, “Call me Dave.”

Calico nods. “Yes. Dave.” She shakes his hand. “I'm sure you're aware of the accusations being leveled at you. Before we begin, we'd like to address the rumor that you do not actually direct any of your films, due to health issues. Is this true?”

“No. Hell, no. Nope. I am perfectly capable of directing films, like I'm perfectly able to sit here, and interview with you.” Though Dave flashes a smile, it's hollow and nervous. “Now, I have no clue who started these rumors, but they're false as shit. I'm always in charge of my films, and I do everything I can during their production.”

“I see.” A serious look crosses Calico's face. She gestures to Dave's wheelchair. “Would you mind elaborating? What are you physically capable of?”

“Well, obviously, I ain't walking. Everything else is fair game. I'm less agile on set, but any camera work I'm not personally up for doing, I give to others.” Dave shifts in his seat. Outwardly, he exudes confidence. Inside his mind, he's clawing at the bars of his metaphorical cage. His heart is pounding. “A lot of it is me, though. Unless the shots are extremely challenging, like, outrageously demanding, I'll do them.”

“I see. Yes. And of your medical history...”

Dave bristles at the suggestion, but forces his inner skepticism away. “Well, I don't think I owe you all of that, to be fair. I can say that the accident did one hell of a number on me. I mean, why wouldn't it? If I escaped without a scratch after being sucker-punched with a killer uppercut from a big-ass truck, it would've been a miracle. And I think I've used all of mine up in that category.”

“A fair point.” A brief pause. Calico looks at her notes, then speaks up once more, “The next topic is that of your working conditions. Your pay is lower than the industry average, is it not?”

Without really meaning to, Dave tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Yes. It is. I don't handle these sorts of things. You'd have to speak with Dirk. Same last name, not related.”

“And it's said you're a bit of a perfectionist?”

“I can't say I'm not. I want my films to be their best, which demands my actors do the same. If I give 110%, I expect everyone else to do the same, within reason, of course. I think films are a group effort, everyone's getting the same grade. So, I'd hope that everyone wants to put in the same amount of effort.”

“And why, exactly, would they want to, if your pay is so low?”

Dave swallows. He coughs. “I... I'm not quite...” The pressure of the question begins to blur the edges of his mind. The formerly perfectly ordered thoughts in his head begin to unravel, turning to strands of seemingly unrelated ideas. “I'm sorry, what was the question? Can you repeat that?”

“I see. We'll simply move on, now, Dave. Do you—?”

“No!” Heat rises to Dave's cheeks, and he's keenly aware of how sharp his response was. “I'm sorry. Please, I'd like to go back to the last question. What was it?”

There's an edge of vague annoyance in the interviewer's voice, but she relents. “Sources inside your staff have reported low wages. Why, then, would they want to put in more effort than what their paycheck demands?”

Dave chews on his lip. “Ah. I guess you... have a point... Um. We're a smaller studio, you see. We don't have the big budgets of the others.”

“But did you not just say you don't handle the finances?”

“I-I don't,” Dave stammers. “This is just my guess. I'm sorry. Let's just...”

“Indeed.” Calico narrows her eyes. She glances to her notebook. “Have you been engaging in a sexual relationship with one of your younger staff members?”

“I have not.” This time, the answer is confident. Dave can't lie about something he knows to be the truth, and he needn't speculate when he knows the whole story. “Karkat and I are...” A brief pause. In his heart, Dave knows that he loves him. Aloud, he can't say that. Not now. “We're good friends.” He can't bear to look the interviewer in the eyes as he speaks the words, but he forces himself to continue. “We're very good friends. There is nothing romantic between us. If there was, I would say. If there was, you can bet your damn life it'd be consensual and only initiated once both of us had said, ‘Yes, totally. This is exactly what we want.’ And not a second before.”

“And you swear to this?”

“I do.” Dave sighs. “I'm friends with a few members of my staff. I'm not a complete shut-in.”

“Yes, the media is fully aware of this.” Calico taps her pen against the page upturned of her notes. She reaches into the book, pulls out a photo, and hands it to Dave. “Can you explain this image, then?”

Dave's heart drops to his stomach. The photo, taken from the window of his trailer, shows him, asleep, on top of Karkat. He remembers the night clearly. He knows what happened, but he understands how bad the situation is. He licks his lips. “I... Karkat came to my trailer. I had been working late, and he had some alcohol, which John had given him to give me. I had some. Nothing happened between us.”

“Mr. Strider,” Calico asks, her gaze piercing straight through her target, “Are you gay?”

Instinct kicks in. “I'm sorry, but I'm not sure that's any of your damn business,” Dave snaps. “Who I like and who I want to spend my damned time with is my business. I see no reason for me to tell the media this private information.”

“Did you and Mr. Vantas have a sexual encounter?”

“No,” repeats an increasingly irate and panicked Dave. “We did not, and I would never have done that if he hadn't expressed that he didn't mind.”

“So, you're suggesting that Mr. Vantas is sexually attracted to you?”

“Don't bring him into this,” Dave snaps. “You can drag my fuckin’ name through the mud all you want, I don't give a shit, but leave him and my sister out of this. They have nothing to do with any of this steaming crap, and you don't have the rights to be publicly shaming them. Pick on someone else, someone with some more damn clout.”

Part of Dave realizes this woman is only doing her job. He's met her a few times before, and she's a perfectly nice troll, but she's driven by her career. At the same time, he feels a sense of fear from the way she looks at him. Her eyes needle his very soul, seeking weakness. “You're eager to defend others, Dave, but do you understand how incriminating this sounds, now?”

“Yes.” Dave is firm in his reply, now. “Yes, I do. If you want to keep pinning blame on someone, stick it to me. I'm a damned cactus, pin all you want onto me, but don't trash the career of some young actor, who's done absolutely nothing to you. Karkat has talent, and he has a whole damned career ahead of him. You've got no reason to take that away from him.”

“You speak highly of this young and upcoming actor. Do you believe he will do well in this upcoming film?”

“I wouldn't have hired him otherwise.”

“Understandable. Do you have any affections for him?”

“I don't need to answer that.”

“Very well.” Calico sighs. She shakes her head and offers her hand. “Well, then, Mr. Strider, thank you for your time. This has been an enlightening interview.”

“You're going to use all of this to make me into some sort of pervert, aren't you?” Dave growls.

The troll shrugs. She flips her book closed and, once the cameras are off, she replies. Her voice is hushed, a mere whisper, as she answers, “I hold nothing against you, Dave. You're a talented man, but someone wants your reputation ruined. I would be very careful if I were you.” Then, after running her claws through her hair, she makes a brisk turn. “Farewell, Mr. Strider. I'm sure I'll interview you again, in the future.”

Gobsmacked, Dave can do little more than bury his face in his hands. He hears Rose's voice, but his mind is too muddled to interpret what she says. A blanket is thrown over his shoulders, and a gentle hand rubs his back.

He's made a complete mess of things, and he knows it.


	16. Peaceful Easy Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, shared moments reveal more about people than you'd think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [song link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NjofshOBV5s)

**19 January 2020**  
**Griddy's Donuts**  
1007 Umbrella Way  
Derse

The overhead strip lights buzz constantly, emitting a low, grainy sound, like a dozen flies all moving at once. Beneath their colorful glass jar domes, the overhead pendant lights above the counter sway gently back and forth. There's a local Derse legend about this place. They say it's haunted, dogged by the cursed ghost of some strange teenage boy. No one knows how true this is, and the overbearingly cheerful middle-age waitress on duty certainly doesn't seem to agree.

“One bacon doughnut for the handsome young man,” she sings, and the crows feet at the edges of her eyes crinkle when she smiles. A plate is set on the table. “And a blueberry slime tart for the troll.” She waves, giggles, and waddles away.

Dave, with all the enthusiasm of a snail sliding into a salt trap, groans. He pokes at his meal with his fork, and buries his fingers in his hair. Today, it's messy, but it still looks soft and light. Stubble covers his chin, forming a distinct shadow. “What you're telling me is that my top billed star is the one leaking all this bullshit?” he growls.

Karkat nods.

“And what do you suggest we do about that?”

“Honestly? Fuck me twenty ways to hell if I knew,” the troll shrugs. He, too, nibbles at his meal. Neither man has any real interest in eating; they're both preoccupied by their discussion. “If you fire him, he'll come back and claim it was unwarranted. We'll know that's all a load of steaming hoofbeast shit, but...” a shrug.

From Dave, a sigh. “I asked Dirk and Jake, and neither of them have a clue where this shit is coming from. We've got rumors bursting at the seams of our ship, but we don't have a damn thing we can do about it. Call up Captain E. Smith, tell him to come and sink with the second _Titanic_ , because this is going down faster than damage control can plug it up.” He takes a bite of his meal. “And you don't know anything, either?”

“I've tried to figure it out, but they're all a little bit smarter than that. They know I'm on your side, so no one I'm not already chummy with is going to touch me with a ten foot spiked javelin. Sorry.”

There's a pause. Both men, in unusually tense silence, eat their meals.

After some time, Karkat breaks the silence. He clears his throat, picks at the fabric of his black turtleneck sweater, and locks his gaze upon his tart. “Thanks for standing up for me in the interview, by the way. That means a lot.”

“No problem.” By his tone, it's obvious Dave doesn't think much of the issue. “It's what any friend does, right?”

“Not really.”

“No?” Now, it seems that Dave is perplexed. There's a hint of a lonely life, before he became a minor star, in the way he addresses the topic of friendship. “I'd think so. Friends stick together. At least, if they're worth however much they're supposed to be, they do. I don't know. I didn't really have many friends growing up,” he admits.

“I can't relate,” Karkat concedes. He's always been surrounded by friends. Maybe it's because of his decidedly different demeanor. Whereas most trolls still have hints of their Alternian bloodlust, he's always been more empathetic, and he's easily tuned into the humans and trolls around him. He notices the subtle cues of emotion and, while he might not always know how to respond to them, he can pick them out. “I'll admit you're a good friend, though.”

A small smile graces Dave's lips, an expression Karkat hasn't seen in some time. It's a relief of sorts, a catharsis. “I'll take it.” He pushes against his knees, briefly straightening his usually slouched posture. “That interview was a fuckin’ trash fire. I've got my social media accounts muted, and I'm pretty close to just zapping them all.”

“Nobody'd blame you for that,” shrugs Karkat.

“I wouldn't give a flying shit if they did, now.” There's a pause, followed by a nervous tapping of fingers against the table. “You... uh... You agree, right? We're just friends.”

“Of course, as long as that's what you want,” Karkat nods.

Another sigh. A prolonged gaze. “Honestly? I don't know what I want at this point. Shit's been so fucked that I'm kind of free-floating in space, now, hurtling my way along an asteroid belt of nothing but bad tabloid reports and un-dank op-eds about me.”

“You're talking out of your refuse chute, now. What does any of that mean?”

Picking up his glass of Coca-Cola, Dave swirls it around. He watches, with a look of dispassion, as the bubbles form a tiny tornado in the center of the glass. “I dunno. I guess... I don't even know why I'm making this movie, really. It's not like I really particularly identify with any of it. Hell, I haven't been really balls-to-the-wall about any of my movies in the past few years. It's like I've burnt out, you know? The creative juices have all evaporated, and money's the great global warming that's drying up the creativity river. I could try and build a damn, scramble to make one all half-assed, but that ain't doing much good, now.”

“You've lost your spark,” Karkat supplies. In a way, he understands. It's not easy to maintain a wealth of creative ideas. Regardless of how passionate one is, the drive will eventually peter out. Whether or not it gets reignited is, however, a different story. He can't force Dave into anything, but he'd be disappointed to see his idol drop the career he worked for with such little foresight. “Do something different, stupid. Stop working all the time. Loosen up.”

“If I wasn't in the middle of some media firestorm, that would be an absolutely rad suggestion,” Dave rubs his chin. “I mean... What? I go out for bowling, and I'll bet you someone is going to use it to claim that I like hunting endangered animals for sport. Who knows!?”

A real point.

Karkat takes a moment to think. “John's father is nearby, in Seattle,” he suggests, “He owns a bakery. It's across the street from an indoor mini-golf place, and the owner happens to be an ex-programmer friend of Sollux's.”

“You're suggesting I unwind by playing a game of _Honey, I Shrunk the Golf Course and Added Many Strange Theme Pieces_?” Dave is incredulous, but there's a faint hint of a willingness to accept the proposal. “Would I even be able to play? If you haven't noticed, having functional legs is a mild requirement for most of those things.”

“I'll check into it.” Karkat finishes off his meal. He accepts the check, pays, and looks to Dave. He flashes a smile, one he hopes looks less intimidating than he thinks it does. “Give me a few days, and I'll see what I can do. You're always welcome to come hang out in my room, too. We're literally right next fucking door to each other, if you hadn't taken a second to think about it.”

“Hm. You're right.” There's a high-pitched tone of surprise in Dave's voice, which indicates that he had not, in fact, thought of the fact Karkat had just brought up. “Well, then, Vantas,” he says, offering his hand across the table, “It's been a good, formal lunch meeting. Let's get back to set.”

* * *

**20 January 2020**  
**Downtown Derse**  
Day 38 of filming

Rain has halted filming. Being winter, it's a heavy, cold rain. When it hits, it soaks; when it soaks, it freezes. Everyone has retreated to the safety of their trailers. Those who have no trailers have been given permission to simply drive home. The scene planned for today, scene thirteen, has been on hold for days, mostly due to weather.

To stay away from prying eyes, Dave and Rose have quietly switched trailers. No signage has been altered, nor has any furniture been moved. Instead, it's a simple arrangement.

Thus, Karkat finds himself standing in front of Rose's desk. In an ornate, silver-painted frame, eight by ten inches in size, is an old photo. While he knows it's rude to look at other people's things, this is just so prominent that he's unable to help himself. He recognizes the image. Dave and Rose stand before the newly opened StriLonde studio, both of them smiling. Rose's expression is soft, while Dave's is as wide and dorky as they get.

It seems Dave also notices. He smiles, wheels forward, and glances over Karkat's arm. “Huh. I didn't know she still had the photo.” He whistles. “I almost forgot how fuckin’ tall I used to be. Hot shit.”

“You didn't know your own sister still had this?” Karkat snickers. “Really? Don't the two of you live together?”

“We do.” Dave pops open a soda. He sets the can aside, on a cork coaster on the desk. “I don't sneak around in her room, though. I'm not that much of a creep. I threw out most of my old photos. I vaguely regret it. It was just a huge, stupid meltdown. I tossed them all, not wanting to be reminded of it.”

“Hm.” Recently polished claws clack against the hardened cardboard backing of the frame. “You could always copy them, and I have some from magazines and promotions. Not to be creepy.”

“You're fine. I'm honestly kind of flattered how much you seem to like my work. Not even I like my stuff that much.” When Karkat sets aside the photo, Dave moves away. He parks by the sofa, and his fingers seem to thoughtlessly dance over the rubberized pushrims of his chair. “I guess it's nice, y'know, having someone who actually believes in what I do. I sure as fuck don't.”

“What about Rose?” Karkat joins Dave, sitting beside him, albeit on the sofa. He leans his arm on the armrest and picks at his teeth, trying to dislodge leftover bits from his lunch.

“Rose is like my damned mom. She doesn't count. It's nice having her, but she don't really factor into my cheering section.” There's a momentary pause, followed by a low hum of consideration. “That sounds bad, doesn't it? It does. What I'm saying is that she's always there. Besides, she's my sister, and she has as much of a monetary stake in this whole shebang as I do. Obviously, she'd want me to succeed. And she writes a lot of the scripts.”

“You don't write any? Never?”

A small, sheepish expression flashes across Dave's face. “I haven't, but I've thought about it. I don't really think I'm that great at writing.”

“I don't see any harm in trying.”

“I guess not.” Dave readjusts himself. From his breast pocket, he takes his plain glasses. After swapping out his shades, and storing them in their case, he pulls a notebook from his bag. He flips through it, eventually stopping on a nondescript page. Handing it to Karkat, he explains, “I've jotted down ideas from time to time, mostly after the accident. Rose and I have discussed a sort of biopic, but not exactly. I guess... It's be more a movie about what it's like to be like me.”

The notes are intriguing enough, though they're bare. What's written is little more than a random grouping of ideas, observations, and personal commentary. Some of it seems incomprehensible, at least without knowing its background. The ideas on the page are candid and intimate. In comparison, Rose's scripts are always finely polished and refined. There's a biting, thoughtful precision in her dialogue, and a vaguely impersonal narrative style.

“Like you?” asks Karkat, not really thinking. His words are tossed out as an aside, meant to keep things from stagnating as he skims the writings.

Dave, in return, answers frankly. “You know what I mean. Disabled.” By this point, he's pulled out his guitar, which he'd brought over from his trailer. He begins to pluck out a tune. It's both upbeat and calm, a sort of mellow country-pop fusion. It's recognizable, but Karkat can't put his finger on it.

“I was always told to avoid saying that.” Karkat's concentration on the notebook slips. His sensibilities—or, rather, the ones he's learned over time—are startled enough for him to redirect his attention.

Still playing his tune, as if without thought, Dave nods. “Yeah. And, for some people, that's fine. Most people I know would rather you just stop pussyfooting around the issue, but, if it makes you more comfortable, do whatever your sensitivity training's told you to do.” At the tail end of his words, there's an odd edge in his voice. “I mean, it's what I am. I don't see much of a point of beating around the bush and calling it anything but what it is. Don't make me anything less than I am, right?”

“I guess not.” Karkat files the information in the back of his mind. At the same time. he shuts the notebook. “I think you've got good ideas.”

“Thanks. If anything comes out of it, you'll be the first to know. Out of the actors here, you're my favorite. Don't tell Dirk, of course, he'd be pissed I didn't pick his boyfriend.”

A raging, hot blush burns Karkat's cheeks. He can't help but grin. It's a wide, toothy smile, one that many humans find unnerving, but it doesn't seem to bother Dave. “T-thank you...”

“Don't thank me for the truth, pal. Just keep up the good work.” Dave's fingers flutter, effortless and deft, across the bridge of his guitar. He hums in tune, then sings, his voice soft and smoky, some of the words. He's lost himself in the tune, and given in to a sense of peace that Karkat has never before seen from him. His shoulders are relaxed. His lips form a loose smile.

Fittingly, it is at this moment that Karkat remembers the name of the tune, _Peaceful Easy Feeling_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm also on tumblr. [here i am!](godtiermeme.tumblr.com) if you're wondering when the golf will happen, you have three more chapters to wait.


	17. Bratja

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late night visit leads to some tender moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [song link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwzAEwzUI8k). as always, thanks for reading! i'm still amazed this has so many kudos!

**21 January 2020**  
**Karkat's Temporary Residence**  
Ocean Pearl Resort, Room 114  
502 W. Palisade Ave.  
Derse

Around 2:00, Karkat wakes to a knock on the door between his room and Dave's. At first, he ignores it. He assumes it's Dave messing around. Who knows what that human is doing, especially at this hour? He rolls back over in bed, pulling the luxurious down-stuffed comforter up, to his chin. Then, he hears it again. This time, it's accompanied by a soft voice from the other side.

“Hey, Karkat,” Dave calls, “Are you awake?”

Untangling himself from the sheets, Karkat must first pull on a bathrobe before he can open the door. (It's still unlocked, but Dave can't possibly know this. Likewise, on Dave's side, the security measures have been undone since day one.) He stumbles to the portal, and throws it open, only to find Dave, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, on the other side. He swears he hears the wet _thud_ of his heart slamming against the walls of his chest.

“Hey. Uh, I know it's late and...” Dave's voice trails off, perhaps as he realizes he's not wearing a shirt. When he speaks up again, there's a clear sense of discomfort in his words. “Sorry. I know it's late. I just wanted to... I have to talk to someone. And I know Rose is asleep, and I know _you_ were probably asleep, but... Uh... Can I come in, maybe?”

Still a bit shell-shocked by nearly everything this scenario entails, Karkat silently steps aside.

Dave wheels over the threshold. When he hits the bump, his right leg shakes; it ceases only after Dave repositions. A low growl escapes him, and he shuts the door after entering. “Thanks. Sorry for waking you up.”

“It's... It's not a problem,” Karkat stammers, still trying to pull himself back together. His eyes are glued to Dave.

From the halfway point of his chest and up, Dave is well-toned and muscular. His broad shoulders are a clear testament to his lifestyle. Yet, below the halfway point, it's soft. His stomach is a bit round, though not overly so. His burn scar stretches up, across his chest, covering his entire right breast, and onto his neck. Old scars trace a map of slow, painful recovery across his torso. A dramatic line is etched in his skin, spanning upward, from his belly button, to just below his breastline. Without his shirt, his slouch is evident.

“I'm... Is this freaking you out? I understand if it is. I've got some gnarly sharkbite work all over me. Uh...” Dave rubs the back of his neck and coughs. “Would it help if you... I don't know? John was pretty freaked out by it until I let him touch me. Weird little bastard, but maybe you're like him. That was... Was that weird to say?”

“Is it weird to say I'd be willing to take you up on your fucked up offer?”

There's a moment of hesitation, followed by resignation. After stretching his arms above his head, Dave nods. “A little, but I s’pose I suggested it first.”

“You did.” Hesitant, Karkat steps forward. He holds his hand out, taking great care to avoid scratching Dave with his claws, and allows himself to just barely graze the surface of some of the scars. Beneath his touch, the burns are rough and puckered, though time has worn some of them smoother than others. While a few of the scars are flat, others are raised, and some are indented, sunken into his skin. There's a warmth to Dave, a literal warmth, as all humans have, that Karkat greatly values. (Trolls have body heat, but they don't emit nearly as much of it through their hardened skin as humans. Certainly not as much as Dave.)

Dave stirs slightly. He reaches out, grabbing Karkat's wrist. His breathing hitches, and his brows furrow. “That's... Uh...” His grip loosens. “Sorry,” he sighs, “I'm sorry... You didn't... You didn't do anything wrong. I... It's just strange, y'know, seeing someone touching me and not feeling it.”

“Yeah.” Karkat quietly slips his hand from Dave's grasp. “I understand. What did you want to talk about?”

“Do you mind if I sit down, maybe somewhere else? My back is sore. I know that sounds strange, but it's my upper back. Sometimes, it's my lower back, but that's just something no one can explain.”

“Would you like to sit on the bed? I have a heating pad.”

“Sounds wonderful.” Dave smiles. He wheels forward, doing his best to avoid bumping into furniture. At the bed, he lifts himself in, struggling slightly with the soft mattress. Once he's lifted himself in, he settles, rolling the blanket up, so that it's under his slightly bent knees. “Thank you for letting me come in like this, unannounced, baring my ugly as hell chest.”

“It's no problem.” From the bedside drawer, Karkat takes the heating pad. He plugs it in, hands it to Dave, and takes a second to ensure all the blinds are tightly closed. Then, with a fluttering sensation overwhelming him, he climbs into bed, sitting down beside Dave. He lays back, folding his hands over his stomach, and stares at the slowly rotating ceiling fan. “What've you come and woken me up, quite unceremoniously, might I add, for?”

Dave mirrors Karkat's positioning. His thumbs twiddle a bit more, and his legs naturally rest at a slight bend. His toes are tightly curled, seemingly of their own accord, though, from time to time, he twitches the big toe of his left foot. “I'm thinking... I think I might want to... I'm thinking about quitting. Throwing away this entire goddamned life. Starting over. Maybe I'll just... Settle down, live a normal life as some washed-up old bastard, cleaning vomit off of the floor of a local Chuck E. Cheese. Who knows?”

Karkat freezes. He turns, to look at Dave, and notices that the man is refusing to meet his gaze. “You... How? _Why?_ ” He can't help but feel emotional. There's a sense of betrayal, a sense of failure, that the words bring. He finds himself clawing at his hair and kneading the mattress. “Why? Why the fuck would you do that? You've done all of this, why would you just throw it away?”

“I've washed up. I don't have any new ideas. This one will be my last movie, and I'll fade into obscurity. A fitting end to a career that might as well have died with the accident,” says Dave. He leans forward, pressing gently against his knee. “What do you suggest?”

“Start with something different,” pleads the troll. He can practically feel his heart shattering. “Please.”

The two men's gazes meet. There's a moment of silence, followed by a sort of unspoken softness.

A strangled, lone sob escapes Dave's throat. None follow it. He pulls himself up, then doubles over, burying his face in his hands.

Karkat reaches out. He drapes his arm over Dave's shoulder. “You're tired,” he says, “We're both tired.”

“I just... It's been years since I've done anything different from what I've always done. I run on a damned schedule. Clock in, punch the pretty buttons, and clock out. I go home, eat, sleep, rinse, and repeat. It's just...” Dave rubs his hands down his face. “I'm just not excited, now. There's nothing  _worth_ being excited about. Why bother? I'll just put out another mediocre film.”

“Then write your own,” Karkat suggests. “Your notes were fucking brilliant, Dave. Maybe you don't see it, but you've got some good shit in that thick head of yours. Use it. Tell a story  _you_ know.”

There's a pause. Dave coughs. “You... God. I don't get it. Why do you care so much?”

“Because I started this damned career because of  _you_ ,” Karkat snaps. “You're... You're just so damned good, Dave. I could shit miles and miles of exposition, pure goddamned prose, about how damned valuable your works are. Maybe not to the people who really matter, but they can go fuck themselves on their own swords of pompous bullshit. They matter to me.” Immediately after he's done, Karkat freezes. “I'm sorry. Fuck. I didn't mean to yell.”

“No... You're fine.” Dave lifts himself into a sitting position. “You're right. And  _I'm_ sorry. I just...” There's a flicker of hesitation. Behind his glasses, the lenses of which verge on being coke-bottle thick, his eyes gleam in the light. Then, after a few quiet coughs, he continues, “When I was younger... Before all of this, before I moved in with Rose, my mother left. Our father was an absolute deadbeat, worth about as much as the gum on the bottom of his fuckin’ shoes. Mom left, took Rose. I was raised by my older brother. Maybe I've told you that? I don't know. My brain gets damned fuzzy at night.”

“Don't we all?” Karkat smiles.

Dave returns the expression, but it fades quickly. He continues his story. “My brother was a real bastard. I used to like him. I don't know. Maybe it was that whole thing you're fed from the day you're born. Love your family. I used to. I used to love him, wanted to be like him. I thought he really cared about me, wanted to teach me to be better. At some point, I figured out that most kids aren't locked in the room all the time, forced to fight with swords on the roof of their building.

“I grew up. I moved out when I could. I got famous, made some pretty fuckin’ solid bank, got hit by a semi. I... uh... Shortly after I finally got out of the hospital, Bro ended up half-dead on the side of the road. Who knows what happened to the bastard? Who cares? Rose took me to see him, I was going to say my goodbyes.” A dark expression appears on a normally impassive face. It strikes fear in Karkat's heart. “He spat on me, called me every thing he could think of. I was no son of his, no brother. If I couldn't even  _walk_ , what good was I?”

“I'm sorry,” Karkat mumbles, unsure of what else to say.

Dave shakes his head. “I've been trying to prove him wrong. That's all I've been doing for the past few years. I've made movies he'd like, things he'd watch, trying to get praise to fill this big, empty hole where I guess a damned regular parent should've been.” He runs his fingers through his hair, then breathes out. “I want to make something new, I guess.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Now, Dave smiles. “Thank you, Karkat. You're a good friend.”

“Nice to know you think that, nerd.” Sincerity is buried beneath a snide insult. Nonetheless, Karkat revels in the warmth in his heart, the sense of accomplishment. The odds of him ever meeting Dave Strider in the first place were thin, but what's happened since then? It's almost unnatural. “Do you need help getting back to your room? Not that I don't think you could do it, it just seems to me that you had some problems getting in.”

“Keen eye,” admits Dave. “Would you mind if I just stayed over? I won't take up much space, and this is a king bed, anyhow.”

Once again, Karkat blushes. “Yeah. Sure. You need anything?”

Dave begins to settle into bed. He inches back down, repositioning himself until he's comfortable. His glasses are carefully placed onto the bedside table. He takes a spare pillow and places it between his knees, then lays on his side. A loud yawn precedes his next statement, “Thanks, but no. I'm just tired as fuck.”

“No problem.” Karkat leans over. He turns off the light, and settles in, himself.

Silence descends upon the pair, broken only by the muffled noise of the city outside. In the darkness, Karkat spends a few moments studying Dave's face.

When he's asleep, the human's face is remarkably peaceful. He seems unfettered by his usual worries, and the lines on his face fade away. His scars create an intriguing, beautiful asymmetry, offset by the way his hair naturally falls.

Eventually, Karkat falls asleep. As the night passes, he unconsciously manages to worm his way over, until his arm is draped over Dave.


	18. Heaven's Divide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two pairs share tender moments that are at once separate and intertwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this is from metal gear. [song link.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFbjOlJRyBw) and [a link to the instrumental](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYDFQeRs5dY). for a different one, [here's a piano cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZWcLna9lNQ). mood-wise, i suggest either the first or third version. the second half is Rose and Kanaya. there's no sex, but they're being Flirty so if you don't feel like reading, just skip the section in Rose's room.

**21 January 2020**  
**Karkat's Temporary Residence**  
Ocean's Pearl Resort, Room 114  
502 W. Palisade Ave.  
Derse

The back door of the most luxurious rooms, 114 through 120, all come with their own miniature backyard. The space is accessible through a sliding glass door, which, in Karkat's case, leads to a pristine manicured garden. It's of the Japanese style, featuring sparse plant life and raked sand. Covered by the overhanging balcony of the room above, a tiled patio just over the threshold provides some respite from the grains. It is in this space, watching the pouring rain, that Karkat finds Dave when he wakes.

Smoke trails from his cigarette, rising into the air in spiraling, dancing wisps. The man's hair is mussed from the night, and he's borrowed one of Karkat's sweatshirts. On his slighter frame, it seems far too large, almost dwarfing him. When Karkat steps outside, he turns, brows raised. “Oh. You're awake. Cancelled filming today, we're not getting anything done. We'll probably have to green screen most of the work, once we get back to Skaia.” Pale fingers pluck a mostly burnt cigarette from his lips. From his lap, Dave picks up his notebook. He holds it up, to the ornate lion-shaped fountain in front of him, and continues sketching.

Peering over Dave's shoulder, Karkat sees an interweaving canvas of graphite lines. Haphazard scribbles form an intricate, fairly loyal reproduction of the fountain before them. “Did you study formally?”

Dave throws his right arm over the back of his chair, twisting his torso to face Karkat. “Nope. Just kept me from going insane during physical rehab.” A small smile graces his lips, and he seems relaxed. “I went next door, to my room, and whipped up some toaster waffles. If you want one, I threw the box in your freezer. Very considerate of you to have a hook-handle umbrella, by the way. They're handy for opening high cabinets and doors.”

“You're welcome, asshole,” Karkat yawns. “If you went next door, why bother stealing one of my sweatshirts?”

“It's cozy.” The smile on Dave's face grows. “It's also pretty cool. You've been to India?”

“Ah. No,” Karkat sheepishly admits, “My friend, Terezi, went there. She brought it back for me, along with some cook books.”

“You cook?” Dave pulls up to a nearby decorative console table. It's low, just the perfect height for him to fold his arms on top. “I've tried. I'm no good at it.”

“Because you can't reach the stove top, short stuff?” Karkat goads.

Dave snickers. He straightens his glasses, pushing the bridge of the nose up with his right hand's ring finger. “I think I'm going to take offense to that,” he laughs. “No, the house is accessible, and so is the room next door.”

“You have ingredients?”

“I ordered them to stock up some supplies before I came, yeah.” It seems that Dave understands where this is going. “You can come over, maybe show me how to cook something simple there.”

“Yeah. Give me a few minutes to get myself more presentable, run a brush through my goddamned hair, and I'll meet you next door. We'll make pancakes, something any wriggler with half a brain can do. Pull any spices you'd like on it, too. Cinnamon is always nice.”

Dave offers a two-finger salute, then disappears into the next room.

* * *

**21 January 2020**  
**Rose Lalonde's Temporary Residence**  
Ocean's Pearl Resort, Room 204  
502 W. Palisade Ave.  
Derse

As the shorter of the two, Rose Lalonde lays in the cradle formed by Kanaya's body. Her face is nestled in the soft fabric of the troll's nightshirt (stolen from her drawer) and the pleasant, spicy aroma of Alternian spices mingles with a dusky hint of fabric softener. There's a silence in the room, broken only by the drone of the rain outside. Two hearts beating, both in tune, serve as the bass, and soft voices are the tenor. They speak of nothing and everything, trading thoughts as one exchanges money, without thought or care.

“We have just over a week left of filming here,” Rose mutters, thinking aloud. “We had initially planned longer, but budgetary constraint have put a damper on our plans. When we've wrapped our location filming, we'll return to Skaia.”

“I do miss my own home,” Kanaya muses, running her fingers through Rose's hair. Her touch is soft, and her claws just barely skim the surface of Rose's skin. On her face, there's a small, reserved smile. “No offense, of course. This resort is wonderful. I'm sure it's five star, and the amenities will be missed.”

“You mean the self-serve minibar?” Rose sticks her tongue out. “You're aware that I collect vintages, are you not? I'd love to have you over some time, and you may peruse my wares. Not to allude to a certain  _Cask of Amontillado_ , of course, I'd never dream of locking you in my cellar.”

Kanaya chuckles. “That's comforting to hear.” She wraps her arm around Rose, pulling the other woman close to her. There's a soft rustling of sheets and fabric, followed by a contented sigh. “You seem to be less worried by the film's uncertain status than Dave. Is there a reason?”

“Dave invests far more energy into the films than I ever will. I don't mean to speak poorly of him, nor am I implying I put less effort into the final product, but I simply don't have the same level of emotional investment. To him, it's an identity; to me, it's a lifestyle. I have simply written the script, and I sometimes assist with other affairs. My primary concern at this moment is editing and, of course, you,” a soft snicker escapes Rose. She playfully turns, pinning Kanaya to the bed. There's no intent to harm, just youthful energy and excitement.

Laughing, Kanaya wrestles back. She wraps her arm over around Rose's back, then tugs her back down to the bed. The two have switched positions in the bed; now, Kanaya is on the left, and Rose is on the right. “You are quite the romantic, Miss Lalonde,” she smiles.

Rose waggles her brows. “Oh, well, romantic prose is my specialty. Thank you for noticing.” A brief, mellow kiss interrupts the discussion, though it resumes effortlessly afterwards. “I might say the same for you, Kanaya Maryam.”

“And I would be flattered to receive such a compliment,” the troll counters. “In fact, I find it strange that we are even together. Not in a bad way, just in a sort of confusing, unlikely way.”

“You enamor me,” whispers Rose, tracing the line of Kanaya's jaw with her fingers. Her touch is light, barely there, as she continues, unable to hold back, “It is fate, perhaps, which has united us here, now. Who knows? Perhaps we were meant to meet on this film, regardless of how the product pans out, the experience will remain indelibly marked in my life. Do you agree?”

“Quoting your own films, Lalonde?” A whoop of laughter, followed by a playful jab on the shoulder. “You amuse me.”

“I concur with your findings, and return them to you, tenfold,” says Rose. Allowing her most basic instincts to take hold, she gives in to her urges and whims. Her fingers run through coarse, wiry hair. Warmth passes between two beings, skin to skin, and passion breathes life into met gazes. There's a sort of roughness to troll skin, not unlike that of fine sandpaper. The soles of the feet and the palms of the hands are the softest portions, akin to ultra-fine polishing grit.

“Tell me, Rose,” breathes the troll, her eyes half-closed, her pointed ear resting against Rose's chest, listening to the human's heartbeat, “If I were to say I love you, to bare my soul, in so few words, what would you say, in return?”

Recognizing these words, drawn directly from her first romance film,  _Crime of Passion_ , Rose responds, in turn, “I would say, in a voice so soft it might be mistaken for a whisper, that I love you, as well.”

The two women burst into a fit of giggles, laughing at their own bombastic silliness. Outside, as the temperature continues to drop, the rain turns to snow. Ice forms patterns of natural lace on the windows, but neither woman notices. Both are far too busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a shorter, fluffier chapter for today. the next one is gonna be FUN! (i'm not being like. ominous. it's gonna be seriously fun.)


	19. Sanpo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for some mini golf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title is [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1WZoyUdlfE), by joe hisaishi, from _totoro_. have fun, because that's probably stuck in your head, now. uwu

**22 January 2020**  
**Downtown Derse**  
Day 40 of filming

Filming is wrapping up for the day.

It's currently somewhere around 5:00 PM, and Dave Strider finds himself not between a rock and hard place, but two immovable brick walls. On one side, there's the deadline. In eight days, the cast will be returning to Skaia, where they'll likely have to complete the rest of their film using green screen and special effects. On the other side, there's the pressing issue of confidentiality. Normally, Dave has no issue with minor leaks of his works in progress. This time, however, he fears that the behind-the-scenes photos will only serve to build unwarranted hype for a film he fears will be an absolute disaster.

According to John and Karkat, many of the leaks are stemming from Manlee, but what of the others? If he were to fire his main star, what's not to say that it wouldn't have an amplifying, rippling effect? It could either put a definitive end to the rumors, or it could compound his problems. Furthermore, beyond the outrageous lies being propagated, it seems that there has been little backlash over the issue Dave most dreaded. As it turns out, now that he's recovered as much as he can, there's little criticism being leveled at his physical health. (That's not to say that people haven't spoken out against his business practices and murmurs of an affair with a staff member.)

Outside, backed against the brick façade of Derse's historic bank, Dave considers his options. He looks to his cast, watching as they casually mingle. Human bonds are a strange, strong thing; to sever them is only asking to be burned.

“Everyone's in a pretty good mood today, huh?” John says.

Dave shrugs. “It at least seems like it. At the very least, we've gotten some filming done, so that's nice.”

“Mhm.” John nods. “By the way, I was wondering something.”

“Then come out with it,” Dave smirks. A stiff breeze forces the rough fabric of his tattered brown overcoat against his face. He pushes the collar down, adjusts his shades, and looks at John. “You've never been shy saying shit.”

A hearty laugh leads into John's inquiry, “How long're you going to keep this up? You're doing a _really_ bad job of acting like you don't like Karkat. You spend all of your free time with him—”

“Just some of it,” Dave interjects.

More laughter. If he were to laugh any harder, John would be doing the definition of a knee-slapper. “You're in gahoots with him.”

“Gahoots? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Gay cahoots. Jade and I made up the word. You like it?” A dorky grin just begs for criticism.

But, as a good friend, Dave withholds his thoughts. Instead, he rolls his eyes. “Wonderful. Let's sprint all the way to the dictionary center to tell them about it.” He leans over, taking his coffee from where it sits, beside him, and takes a sip. Then, cradling the warm cup between his hands, he continues, “Look, there's nothing happening between Karkat and I. I can promise you that.”

“Really? Because I was thinking that, really, a lot of the controversy is just because it's a _rumor_. If the two of you just came out with it and told everyone it's fine on both ends, I doubt anyone would really care anymore.” John shrugs. Without asking, he leans over, and plucks the coffee cup from Dave's hands. He takes a sip, then returns the beverage, gently patting the top as he does so. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“It wasn't yours, nerd,” chuckles Dave.

“Maybe not.” John wiggles his eyebrows. “Whatever. I was just thinking out loud. You don't have to listen to my amazing advice if you don't want to.”

“Yeah, well, don't hold your breath waiting for your royalty check on that idea. You'll turn blue faster than goddamned Ramiel.” Despite Dave's reply, there's a part of him that considers John's words. There's a definite ring of truth to them, and it's not as if the solution he's proposed is terrible. It's not, in some ways, ideal. Beyond his own personal reservations about a relationship, Dave can't help but wonder what the ramifications of his actions would be. If, in the future, they fell out of favor with one another, would he be willing to lose Karkat as a friend?

 _“Then again,”_ says a voice in the back of his head, _“How likely is it that Karkat and I wouldn't stay together?”_

As John walks away, Karkat approaches. He sits down, atop the concrete, and pulls a stick of nicotine gum from his pocket. He offers it to Dave, tacking on an explanation, “Rose says she wants you to stop smoking. I told her this was a stupid idea, but she gave me a whole fucking dance about her feelings, then paid me twenty dollars to come and give this to you.”

Dave responds with a bemused look. This sounds exactly like what he’d expect from his sister. Still, he obliges. The flavor is fairly standard. Minty, cool, vaguely refreshing. “You work for that little, huh? I could lower your pay a shitload, then. Nice work today, though.”

“Thank you,” Karkat reaches into his pocket and takes out a crushed bag of bite-sized Oreos. By now, they’re little more than fine dust, with an occasional little chunk. He dumps the mixture straight into his open mouth. “I talked to Degahs, by the way. Owns that dumb little mini golf place I told you about. He said he’d be happy to have us over some time. The course is accessible, and he reassured me that, if it wasn’t, he’d be more than happy to defecate on the floor and eat the fucking product. He said to swing by some night, after their seven o’clock closing. He’ll let us have free reign for two or three rounds.”

“Oh!” In the chaos of recent events, Dave had all but forgotten about Karkat’s plan. Now that he’s been reminded, however, he recognizes it as the perfect opportunity. “Just us. You, me, and a whole lot of plastic green. Sounds solid enough.” There’s a moment, now, in which Dave realizes how much effort Karkat is investing in their friendship. It’s at once humbling and empowering. “I’ll text you later, or you can swing by my room. We’ll hammer out those deets, okay?”

“Whatever the fuck that particular combination of words means, sure,” shrugs Karkat. Presumably having finished his finely pulverized Oreo purée, he balls the bag up, and shoves it back into his pocket. “I’ve got to get to my trailer. Crabdad wants me to call him. I’ve always got to keep the grouchy old bastard informed about my glamorous life, after all.”

“Tell your Dad I said hello, then.”

By now, already walking away, Karkat offers a wave. “Sure,” he calls back.

* * *

 **25 January 2020**  
**Planet Pirates Putting Fields**  
3204 Fairfield Way  
Seattle

The course is huge, enclosed within what can more aptly be described as an air-conditioned sarcophagus of sorts. It’s as if a large metal structure was simply slipped on top of a pre-existing area, complete with manicured turf fields and fountain-dotted water hazards. Dominating the course is a massive pirate ship, styled to appear as if it’s run aground. Plaster pirates surround it, manning the cannons, scooping up the gold, and commanding the crew. Similar statues also dot the entire course, with some even hidden amidst foliage.

Upon arrival, and after paying, both men pick out their clubs. Dave opts for a child size, which he can easily use with one hand.

Afterwards, play commences. Despite the relatively even ground on most of the holes, there are a myriad of strategic challenges and humps. The first hole, however, appears to Karkat like a pretty straightforward shot. The playing field is level, and the shape of this hole is akin to a small kidney bean.

Since Dave had insisted the entire way to the course that he do so, Karkat goes first. He places the ball on the starting mat and lines up his shot. After careful consideration, he gives it a gentle tap, and it proceeds to roll straight and true, directly past the hole.

“FUCK!” snaps the troll.

“Ah, damned shame about that shot, friend,” Dave tuts, smiling. As he passes a still-gawking Karkat, he gives him a gentle pat on the back. He places his ball down, and lines up his own shot. He uses only his right hand, angling himself so that his body faces forward, to the hole. His hit is accurate, and he sinks the ball in a single try. As he wheels past the hole, scooping his ball from its depths, he snickers. “Did I forget to mention that my rehab included mini golf?”

Karkat, by now in the process of putting his own ball into the goal, lets loose a low growl. “I sure do fucking think so.”

From Dave, a shit-eating smirk. He hoists his club up, onto his shoulder, as if it's a magnificent broadsword (and not, in fact, a hot pink golf club, emblazoned with unofficial  _Dora the Explorer_ decals). He waits, the image of patience, as Karkat finishes his putting. When this is done, he sets his club across his lap and wheels to the next hole. There are two paths, one made of brick steps, and the other, a ramp. There's a slight incline, but it doesn't seem to bother him much.

The second hole is similar to the first, but with a longer structure and a few more hills. While Karkat lines up and takes his first shot, Dave speaks up. “Thanks for the outing, by the way. Don't take it too personal if you lose. We drove for three fuckin’ hours to have fun, right?”

“I wasn't planning on it,” Karkat rolls his eyes. He watches, and is only vaguely surprised when his shot once again misses the hole.

Dave goes next. This time, he, too, misses. He inches back, allowing Karkat space to take his shot. “You want to... maybe... Uh...” He coughs. “Wanna’ call this a date?”

The question startles Karkat. He jumps, shoots the ball, and manages to send it flying. A metallic grey sphere bounces across several holes, then splashes into the water obstacle several holes over. “WHAT!?”

“I'm not going to count that one as a shot. My fault,” utters Dave, hurriedly.

“I... I mean... If that's what you want, you enigmatic prick. We can...” Karkat sputters.

Dave smiles. It's a small, slight expression, more of a flicker of the edges of his mouth than anything. As if he had anticipated this, Dave takes another silver ball from his pocket. He tosses it to Karkat, and continues after the man has caught it, “Cool. Then it's a date.”

“Y-yeah...” Karkat looks down, trying desperately to hide both a doofy grin and a passionate blush. “What's with the sudden heel-face turn?”

“You watch wrestlin’?”

“Don't change the subject, you shithole.”

Dave raises his hands in surrender. “Now, I don't know much ‘bout feelings, but I reckon we're both kind of chummy. Make this a date, and both of us are happy, right? Your horns are turning red, so I'm guessing that's an agreement.”

From Karkat, who is currently scooping his ball out of the hole, there's another sputter. “I'm! My horns aren't!”

“It's okay. Take your time,” Dave laughs. Once the trolls has moved out of the way, he sinks his own ball. “That's one below par for both of us.”

 

The seventh hole is set up strangely. There's an arch in the course, with a hollow false log crossing the center of the bend. Water runs underneath. When Dave hits his ball into this log, it pops out the other end, immediately landing a hole-in-one.

Naturally, Karkat goes for the same shot. “You're not the only person capable of cheating, Dave,” he scoffs. He taps his shot into the log, and is flabbergasted when it fails to come out. He lays on the turf, brows furrowed, and peeks through the shortcut. “What the actual fuck?”

Dave wheels forward. He drops down, catching himself on an outstretched hand, and attempts to seek out the source of the problem, too. Though it's likely he can't see into the tunnel, he still comments, “I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark and say you just done and broke this golf course. Way to go!” With a huff of exertion, he straightens. He dusts his hands off, rubbing some of the stray turf onto his jeans. “If it helps, I can claim to have done it.” A very convincing pout crosses the man's face, and his tone takes on a tongue-in-cheek, singsong quality. “I'm so sorry, sir, I simply can't free this ball. Would you like for me to pay for the repairs, instead?”

“That's not the point! I'm not walking all the way back to the start just to get another fucking ball.” In the opening, Karkat sees his ball; it's stuck on what appears to be a mass of organic matter. It shines, sticky and wet, even in the darkness. Undeterred, he jams his golf club in, ramming it repeatedly against the obstacle. “Oh, fuck me with a thirty foot cattle prod,” he growls. “Come on, you stubborn little bastard! Move!”

There's a loud, slurping pop. The ball, now coated in green goo, wobbles out of the hole. It moves much like a geriatric retiree, slowly and uncertainly, unaware (or, perhaps, uncaring) of the needs of those around it. Karkat watches, holding his breath, as it nears the hole. Then, abruptly, it stops, caught on its own dripping ooze.

“FUCK!”

“You want to call that a hole-in-one? Save some face?” Dave says, his tone apologetic.

With his face in his hands, and his pride shattered, like a discarded heirloom plate, Karkat nods. “Yes, please.”

A quiet scratching noise. Dave records the score as two hole-in-ones.

 

At the end of the night, after two riveting games of miniature golf, the score is as such:  
\- Par for the course was forty.  
\- On the first game, Dave weighed in at twenty-six strokes, while Karkat had thirty.  
\- On the second game, Dave scored twenty-nine, and Karkat scored thirty-four.  
Thus, summarily, Karkat Vantas had his ass handed to him on a pastel-colored, pirate-themed platter. Dave won, without objection, and without any room to even begin to claim otherwise. Not that it really matters. They came to have fun, not to engage in any real competition.

Now, back in the car, on their way back to Derse, the two are in stitches. The night is young, and the drive ahead is long, but neither cares. Right now, in this moment, all that matters is that they're with each other and free to be who they want to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: jamming a golf course shortcut is based on a true story. when i was a kid, there was a golf course at the beach dad and i always went to. one time, dad shot into the log, and it never came back out. unfortunately, in our case, it didn't come back out and we kinda skeedaddled the fuck outta there. i've never been to seattle and i completely made up this golf course, but it's based off of the one at the beach.


	20. Stampede of the Ohmu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for the person responsible for sabotaging the StriLonde Studios operation heats up, and word of a new pairing spreads through the cast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [song link](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x460o83)

**25 January 2020**  
**Downtown Derse**  
Day 43 of filming

The day begins with a mandatory meeting. An email, sent early in the morning, states that all cast and crew were to attend this safety discussion, hosted by none other than the esteemed director himself. Thus, huddled in the cold, outside of the trailers, and sitting on anything they can find is the crew of _Study in Monochrome_.

At this time, Karkat is sitting beside Sollux. The four-horned troll leans over, whispering in his friend’s ear, “What’cha think this whole thing is about?” he lisps.

Kanaya, having heard Sollux’s not-well-whispered remark, shrugs. “I have a hunch.”

“Well, fuck.” Karkat is startled. “You do? I don’t even have any clue what this sort of cockamamie bullshit this little talk session is for.”

“You know, the longer you spend with Dave, the more your strange little sayings tend to sound like something he’d say,” Kanaya muses. There’s a knowing grin on her face, and it only grows with Karkat’s blush.

“Okay, well, fuck you, you piss-stained shit handkerchief, first of all,” bristles Karkat. “Secondly, what do you think we're here for, freezing our goddamned rumpus cheeks off?”

“Rose told me that something rather concerning was found on set recently. Other than that, I have no idea.”

Sollux’s former look of excitement fades. He crosses his arms and lets forth an indignant huff. “Well, shit, that’s the last time I’m trusting you two idiots for information. You’re banging the directors of the movie, and neither of you can even get any good scoops. Pitiful.”

Both Karkat and Kanaya respond with bashful, incoherent hemming and hawing. Fortunately for them, the meeting begins, and they needn’t concoct any sort of excuse for their actions.

Dave exits his trailer brusquely. There’s a certain air of assertiveness to him, and there’s a definitiveness in his voice when he speaks. “So, I’m not going to bore y’all with all the details of this entire affair. We don’t need to drag this shit out and longer than necessarily, right? It has come to my attention that there have been recent efforts to sabotage the filming of my movie.”

A murmur ebbs through the gathered crowd.

Before anything more can be said, Dave continues, holding one of the prop guns in his hand. “I’d like to know which of y’all happened to be the last to touch this prop, because it was loaded with nice, fake blanks last time I saw it. This morning, during my routine safety checks, I found it loaded with real bullets. So, who wants to admit to this shit?”

Not surprisingly, no one moves.

Rose emerges from the trailer, now, and takes the gun. Her presence, alone, is enough to cast a spell of silent, abject terror over the crowd. “Allow me to elucidate the specifics of this scenario. Whoever happened to pull this little ‘prank’,” Rose encapsulates the word in pointed air quotes, “Will he immediately fired. Safety is the number one value at StriLonde studios.”

When the culprit still fails to step forward, Rose continues, “This was no happenstance. All firearms are unloaded at the end of filming, and Dave and I reload them before every shot. This is for your safety, and if you all are not willing to take this seriously, we will simply terminate your employment. If you step forward in the next three seconds, I will see to it that you will at least receive a severance package. Three.”

No one moves.

“Two,” Rose folds her arms across her chest.

“One,” Rose begins to say more.

A normally quiet sound technician, a troll, by the name of Warden, elbows his way to the front. “I did it!” he declares. “I was paid to do it.”

“I see.” There’s no anger in Rose’s voice. In fact, her tone is terrifyingly even. “And who paid you?”

“Fuck if I know who it was. He gave me three thousand dollars and told me to swap the ammo.” From where he stands, at the back of the crowd, Karkat can’t make out and distinctive features on this particular troll. He does, however, see two security guards promptly take hold of him. Nonetheless, the man continues to protest, “You can fire me if you want, but Manlee was in on it, too. The same bastard’s paid him off, too!”

“That’s the most ridiculous claim I’ve ever heard. Why would I jeopardize my role as the top billed star?” Manlee shrugs.

The crowd erupts into an uproar. People yell and elbow their way forward, as if incensed by some sort of sudden, hysteric plague. The meeting verges on chaos, only for Rose to sound an air horn.

“Warden, as of this time, you’re now fired. I will discuss your severance package with Dirk, as promised, but be aware that you will henceforth be barred from ever seeking employment with this company ever again.”

“Like I’d want to, anyhow,” spits the troll. He doesn’t fight the security guards, and is led away peacefully.

Afterwards, in an understandably tense voice, Dave dismisses the meeting. “Okay. This shit show has officially ended. We’ll begin filming as planned, you have another hour to get ready.”

 

“You don’t think this has anything to do with Bro, do you?” Dave rolls an unlit cigarette between his fingers, and he speaks around a wad of nicotine gum. (Ever since Rose paid Karkat twenty dollars to deliver some of the minty cigarette replacements, he’s been trying to ween himself off of smoking.) “I mean, shit, I know it sounds like I’m whipping this whole whacked up idea out of my ass, but who else would be willing to drop so much money just to ruin one film?”

From where she sits, perched comfortably in her assistant director’s chair, Rose shrugs. “We’ve made plenty of enemies in the industry, Dave. Bro is dead, and he’s been as such for quite some time. I highly doubt anyone would actually want to seek revenge on his behalf.”

“Hm.” Dave leans his elbow against the wheel of his chair and props his cheek on his fist. “I fuckin’ guess. I just can’t think of anyone else...”

“That’s fair.” Rose shrugs. She takes a sip of water before continuing. “We’ve solved the problem for now, though, so I wouldn’t waste your time worrying too much. I forgot to ask you about your golf outing. How was it?”

For some reason, Dave finds himself blushing. “Oh. It was nice, I guess. We’re dating, now.”

“Wonderful!” Rose grins. It’s an unusual show of extreme emotion from her, and Pride seems to ooze from her very being. “I’m ecstatic, on your behalf.”

“I feel like I’m using him for media publicity,” admits Dave.

Rose’s expression refuses to falter. “Well, from what I understand, you both share feelings for one another. Regardless of the basic motivation, this is an entirely mutual relationship. So, I reiterate my congratulations.”

Dave offers a response in the form of an expression that’s a cross between an embarrassed grimace and a smile. “Thanks, sis. Don’t mention it. Seriously, dead as a fuckin’ Big Mac heart attack—and, for marketing’s sake, that’s spelled heart A-T-T-A-C—don’t mention it.”

“My lips are sealed,” snickers Rose.

Dave groans. Perhaps telling his sister this information was a bad idea...

* * *

**25 January 2020**  
**Golden Tongue Breweries**  
9306 W. Tower Rd.  
Derse

The industrial air of the building is underpinned by homey, rustic wooden accents. Strong, hulking beams, made of what appear to be salvaged barn wood, slice across the ceilings, running perpendicular to the long structure's profile. Distressed, corrugated metal fills the gaps between these support beams, and lights, made to look like old oil lamps, hang low from the ceiling, one over each table.

Seated at one of the booths, complete with a black leather finish on the booths, is a pair of trolls. While Karkat has been nursing the same glass of an experimental cherry gose for the past hour, Sollux is three cans deep into his outing. The sound grip is taking full advantage of his friend's generosity, it seems; not that Karkat can blame him for that.

“I'm not taking sides in this petty spit-fight, KK,” Sollux lisps and slurs at the same time. It is only by the grace of years of friendship that Karkat can understand him. “This shit's more drama than I can handle. But I'm real interested in it. Real happy for you. You two are really dating?”

“No,” Karkat quips, dryly, “I'm lying. This is one fucking huge ruse, perpetuated by a miniature me, residing within the most demented reaches of my own mind, just to play with your think pan. I have concocted this entire scheme purely to fool you, my best friend of almost eighteen years, into falling for a huge, farcical-as-fuck charade.”

When Sollux laughs, it's more akin to a parade of hiccups. “So, have you slept with him?”

Nubby horns light bright red. Karkat stammers, “I-I... What the actual fuck, Sollux!? You can't just ask me that in public.”

“So you _have_. I knew it. Score one for Captor.”

“I mean... I... It was only technically sleeping together. Nothing happened. We didn't interlock mating organs or anything. We haven't even interlocked lips.”

“You got to third base and skipped first and second? Impressive, KK. You're a real playboy.” A toothy, fanged smile is flashed on Sollux's end.

Karkat flounders even more. He scrambles wildly, his brain working overtime, as he stutters his reply, “Y-you're... Jesus fucking Christ. What is with everyone!? Why are you all so keen on sticking your olfactory nodules into my personal business? Since when does any of this even concern you!? You just said you didn't care.”

“I'm just curious, and _you're_ the one who decided to bring me out for a drink. Besides, this is the perfect time for some juicy gossip.”

Karkat buries his face in his hands and groans. “There's no other gossip to talk about?”

“Not that interests me, no.”

“God, you're insufferable.”

Sollux winks. “I try my best, KK.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm out of backlog updates so this might not update daily for a while. i used picrew to mock up a dave. [it's here on my personal blog](https://godtiermeme.tumblr.com/post/186238605892/i-will-simply-use-picrew-to-recreate-homestuck) if you wanna see it.


	21. Dream Lantern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendly banter on the flight home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's the song link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N9XIaxhe_EM), it's from _Your Name_ ( _Kimi No Na Wa_ ) by RADWIMPS. [this is a link to the english version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUGCDAaZhs0).

**31 January 2020**  
**Vagabond Regional Airport**  
Boarding for Flights SA0612 and LXA1203

The plane was supposed to have have taken off ten minutes ago. The main flight, with all the cast and crew, has already left. The private jet booked for Dave, Rose, Karkat, and Kanaya, however, hasn’t left yet, primarily because the young director has yet to show. The pilot, a portly, balding man, is getting irate. And, just before the pilot is about to threaten taking off, (for the third time) Dave arrives.

He looks, first, to the pilot; then, to himself, disheveled and covered in melted Dairy Queen. He offers a sheepish grin, “I guess I should explain myself?”

The pilot doesn’t answer. He storms off, and both Rose and Kanaya follow him. They take with them all of Dave and Karkat’s carry-on luggage.

Karkat, meanwhile, hangs behind. He enters the plane at a more leisurely pace, trailing behind his boyfriend. “Where the fuck were you?” he asks, smirking. There has to be a story behind this, and, if appearances are worth anything, it's going to be a good one. “And why, exactly, are you covered in partially melted dairy-based dessert slop?”

Dave laughs. He rakes his fingers through his hair and shrugs. “Is that actually what trolls call ice cream, or are you just shitting around with me?”

Caught in the act, Karkat raises his hands in the air. “You got me. I'm just fucking around. We just call it ice cream, but it sounded convincing enough for you, in all your infantile wisdom, to believe it. I'd call that a pretty good fake name.”

“Touché.” At this point, having reached the boarding tunnel, Dave swiftly transfers to a standard, bulkier wheelchair. A porter carries his usual one off, presumably to be promptly stored aboard the aircraft. He's less adept with this chair, moving a bit slower than usual. “I lost track of the time. I ended up in line for Dairy Queen, and, apparently, it's a busy place here, at l’il Vagabond Regional. About halfway through my dessert, I checked my watch, realized I needed to skeedoodle the fuck over here, and ended up spilling most of my cone on myself.”

“Not as interesting as I'd hoped.”

“Did you want me to say I was battling a shark?” The words are spoken in perfect deadpan, with an expression to match. Only the faintest twitching at the edges of Dave's lips, the mere threats of a smirk trying to break through, testify to his tone. After the pair have crossed the threshold, and the door is closed behind them, he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a key chain, the front of which is emblazoned with “I [heart] Derse”, and tosses it to Karkat. “Kanaya said you collect these, so I grabbed you one while I was at the duty free.”

Unlike Dave, Karkat is terrible at hiding his emotions; he always has been. A wide smile breaks across his face. “Thanks. I'll put it on my cork board, with all the others.”

By now, the pair has entered the proper body of the plane. This time, Rose and Kanaya have holed themselves into the office. Dave and Karkat settle into the main area, with Dave pouring them both matching wine flutes of Hardliner. “A whole cork board? How many do you have?”

It takes Karkat a moment. He recounts, first, the places he's been. His goal is, whenever he goes to a new place, to pick up a key chain. He's been, of course, to his hometown, Skaia, and (just now) Derse. Furthermore, he's hit up Berlin, D.C., Richmond, and New York City. Next, he considers the places his friends have been. From his collective friend group, —Kanaya, Terezi, Sollux, and Nepeta, mainly—he's gotten souvenirs from Los Angeles, Dubai, Hong Kong, Tokyo, and London. He totals all of this, “Twelve. I've got—hey! Don't laugh, you insensitive jack-off! Fuck you! I'm not the one who collects intentionally hideous ceramic figurines.”

Dave, between snickers, claps his hand against Karkat's back. “No, we're at a misunderstandin’, I'm laughing because I think it's _cute_. You're so fuckin’ sentimental, dude. You're one of those people with books of pressed flowers and scrapbooks filled with old movie tickets you don't know what to do with, right?” The laughter subsides, and his next comment is more pensive. “A lot like John, actually.”

Karkat hums in agreement. He doesn't know John well. He's spent time with the goofy man on set, but he can see what Dave means. He's noticed John collecting bottle caps at parties, at least one per gathering, and taking many photos on his phone. “Yeah,” he admits. “Aren't you?”

The discussion grows more serious. A look, vaguely sullen, flits across Dave's features. He draws small circles on the tabletop with his index finger. “I guess not. I don't really have a whole lot to be rememberin’, really. My childhood wasn't all that hot, and I threw out all my other photos. I guess it's just not a thing I consider doin’, y'know?” He coughs. It's dry and short, a signal that he's clearing his mind to speak again. “It's weird, though.”

“What is?” Karkat sips at his drink. The way it goes down his throat is like a burning sensation, but not unpleasant. Rather, it's a sort of liquid warmth, that easily settles in the pit of his stomach.

(Legally, he can be drinking alcohol. While the age limit for humans is twenty-one, trolls are legally allowed to drink at twenty.)

“The more I'm around you, the more I want to be like that. I keep catching myself doing these weird things, like taking random photos and saving old receipts from our dates. Not like I'll need them later. We ain't returning that fuckin’ Olive Garden meal, but it's just nice to remember it.” There's the faintest hint of a smile, a slight change in the curvature of his lips. As the plane begins to taxi to the runway, the low hum of its engines back Dave's words. “I've spent my whole life trying to soak up every damned ounce of attention I could. I've been a sponge for fame, but maybe what I've been lookin’ for is actually someone like you.” His cheeks are a soft pink. In the light of the sunset, which filters through the partially closed blinds over the round window, his hair is a golden blond.

Karkat's heart leaps, pounding against his chest. His mouth runs dry. “Thanks. That... Wow. Fuck. That means a lot.”

* * *

 **31 January 2020**  
**Flight LXA1203**  
En Route to Skaia Regional Airport

Spread out before Rose and Kanaya is a Monopoly board. To be specific, it is the Alternia Edition, recently acquired from the airport's duty free store. Rose has chosen the wriggler piece, while Kanaya has opted to go for the trident. At this exact moment, Rose is winning. She has strategically installed High Drones (the Alternian Edition equivalent of hotels) on all three yellow spaces, and is in the process of doing the same to all the green spaces. Kanaya's reserves have been depleted and are rapidly dwindling.

Luckily for her, Rose manages to land on the Breeding Grounds. (In the standard version, this would be analogous to Indiana Avenue.) It's one of the only properties Kanaya has built a hotel on. Triumphant, the troll quickly pulls the relevant property card out. “That will be $1050! Thank you very much!”

Rose hands over the money. Though it barely scratches the surface of her accumulated (and monetarily worthless) fortune, it's a substantial addition to Kanaya's coffers. “Here you are. It was an absolute delectation to stay at the esteemed Hotel of Maryam. I will certainly leave a four star review on TripAdvisor.”

Across the table, Kanaya pouts. “Only four stars!? What was the one point reduction for, ma'am?”

“Why, I didn't happen to see the beautiful owner!” Rose giggles. She places a swift kiss on her girlfriend's cheek before returning her attentions to the game. She rolls the dice, and ends up on the Culling Wheel space. (In the standard game, these cards are labeled as “Chance”.) She reads it aloud. “Advance to the nearest Palace.” Following directions, she ends up on the Imperial Water Supply spot. “And it seems I must pay you again, Miss Maryam!” She rolls the dice, calculates ten times their total, and hands over eighty dollars.

Quite pleased with this development, Kanaya puts a brief halt to the game before continuing her turn. “Might I ask you a question, Rose?”

“Of course.”

“When we land, what were you planning on doing? I understand you would likely return to your home, but I was wondering if—?”

Kanaya doesn't need to finish her statement. The two women have spent enough time together to read into each other's statements. With a flash of a wide smile, Rose eagerly accepts the offer that she knows is coming. “You're more than welcome to come to my house! If I recall correctly, your home is currently under repairs, is it not?”

Nodding, Kanaya continues her turn. Nothing of any note occurs during it. “Yes. It seems that the residents in the adjoined unit have broken their plumbing. I've arranged for Sollux's matesprit, Aradia, to pick me up. She'll drive me to my place, where I will collect my things, then I will return to your house. Is that an acceptable arrangement?”

“It is, indeed!” From her stash of colorful cash, Rose takes out fifty dollars, having landed on the Fuschia Shuttle. (To match the Alternian theme, the usually pale dye for the paper money is altered. Instead, it is more deeply shaded, to match the standard hemospectrum.) She hands it to Kanaya, further remarking, “Why, exactly, are we playing this mindless game, anyhow?”

“Why not?” Kanaya shrugs.

 

Back in the main area, Dave and Karkat are entertaining themselves in a different way. Dave has produced a Nintendo Switch and, with the device hooked to the television on the far wall, each is now engaged in their third round of  _Smash_. As always, Dave has chosen Princess Peach. His impeccable timing offers him an advantage, especially when one considers that on of Peach's specials is a counter. Karkat has chosen to play as Marth.

Dave has shifted his position, and now sits on the sofa. The table has been collapsed, so that it blends with the floor. This has allowed Karkat to lay across the sofa, with his feet on Dave's lap.

At this exact moment, Dave's character is caught in the flurry of sword slashes from Karkat's character. As Peach's repeated exclaims sound out, Karkat smirks. “Not such fucking hot stuff when you're being juggled, huh? You're good at blocking, but you're absolute shit at teching.”

“At  _what_?”

“Teching. You take the damage, block at the right time, and you'll kind of bounce away. You won't get juggled.” Karkat shrugs. “Sollux was part of the competitive  _Smash_ circuit. We'd play together all the time, and he'd tech me shit like that. It's absolutely useless in the real world, but it's vaguely impressive to drop technical terms in the middle of matches.” In a brief lapse of judgement, Karkat lets Dave regain his footing. When he attacks again, he's met with a plume of Toad spores. “Oh, shit-tits.”

“And here comes the wind-up,” Dave announces, coinciding with the animation of Peach producing a frying pan. A flurry of white stars surround the pink-clad woman, then there's an oddly satisfying  _whap_.

In a fading yell, Marth spirals into the air, becoming little more than a star in the sky of the Animal Crossing stage. As the various animals cheer in the background, Karkat hangs his head in defeat. “Ah. Shit.”

“You're still winning,” Dave smirks. “Another round?”

“Sure. Don't pick Peach this time,” says Karkat.

The screen advances to the character select menu.

Dave once again chooses Peach, and the dumbest grin is plastered on his face. “I didn't agree to the condition.”

Karkat laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading! if there's anything you'd like to see, feel free to suggest it. i have the vague plot worked out, but i'm trying to build up to it.


	22. The Smallest Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When turbulent weather clears, it's often an omen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's the song link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKnkbIMgK6I). this is from _beasts of the southern wilds_ , and it's also been used in a lot of commercials lately. why? i have no idea. also, SURPRISE! BRO ISN'T DEAD! (that was probably obvious. if he was, we wouldn't have any conflict. you've gotta wait until the audience is invested before you introduce the CONFLICT.)

**1 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios - Green Room**  
Day 46 of filming

Due to a doctor's appointment, Dave is away for the first half of today's filming. Rose in charge of the cast, as John had volunteered to drive Dave.

At this very moment, however, it's that magical between-shots period. Other members of the crew are busy preparing the set pieces. Blocks are being set up, and new camera positions are being established. Those who aren't busy with this mill around, doing their own thing. Karkat, seeking some solitude, has isolated himself in a pure green set piece. It resembles an incomplete room, with three matte green walls, made of little more than fabric-covered plywood. Through these thin walls, he can hear someone approaching.

Manlee appears, poking his head around the corner. “Oh. Hey. There you are. Rose sent me. She wants to talk to you.”

Karkat grunts. He rolls up the taco he'd been eating, and shoves it into the deep pocket of his overcoat. “Ugh. Fuck. It's my lunch break. What does she want?” He sets aside his phone, which he'd previously been using to browse through pointless GrubVision videos. He figures he won't need it.

“Not sure. She's down in the prop room. Go and ask her.” Manlee shrugs.

Another grunt. Karkat stumbles to his feet and trudges off, dutifully making his way along the winding halls. Once he reaches his destination—marked by the “props” placard on the door—he stops. Though he doesn't see Rose, he can hear someone behind the door. “You're biting into my lunch break, Lalonde,” he calls, “What the fuck do you want?” He reaches for the door's handle.

The door swings open, and a gruff hand pulls him into the dark room. The palm is covered by a fingerless leather glove, prompting a vague sense of recognition.

“Dave, what the literal fuck are you doing!?” Karkat tries to worm his way out of the death hold he's found himself in. He twists and writhes, but, try as he might, he can't break away. “Dammit! What sort of bug crawled into your ear and died!? Is your think-pan rotting out!? What are you—?” He doesn't get to finish.

Another voice speaks, now. It's akin to Dave's, with the same drawl, but it's deeper, more grizzled. Whereas Dave's is markedly younger, with a smooth mid-pitched tone, this voice is older. It's like metal against gravel. “Oh, that's cute. You think I'm Dave?”

A cold chill runs down Karkat's spine. “Who the fuck are you?”

A low, rumbling snicker echoes in the space. “You can call me Joseph.” The words are immediately followed by the sting of a fist to the nose.

 

Summoned by a frantic call from Rose, and having abandoned his scheduled appointment halfway through, Dave arrives at the studio. He's frazzled, tired, and irate. “What the fuck do you  _mean_ you can't find Karkat? He's a loud guy. How can you just lose him!?”

“Well, gee, David, if I knew where one of our main stars was, don't you think I would have simply located him myself?” quips Rose. “I don't need your smartass commentary right now. Dirk said he saw someone leaving the studio wearing shades, dressed in a white wife-beater, and with white hair. You don't suppose that—?”

“Bro is dead,” Dave asserts. It's a belief he's held for years, one he desperately wants to be true. “I have his death certificate. He can't be alive.”

“Well, that's what Dirk said. Perhaps that motivates you to—” again, Rose doesn't get time to finish.

Dave rushes past her, joining the rest of the cast in their search.

 

It's been almost two hours. The search has shifted away from the immediate area, and to the deeper sections of the studio. Word has reached Dave that strange sounds have been heard in the props closet, and Rose has given him a key. He opens the door cautiously, only to be taken aback by a loud thud. His heart stops, and he finds himself staring at Karkat.

The troll has been bound and gagged. Dried blood crusts his face, having clearly leaked from his nose. Scrapes cover his body, but he seems otherwise unharmed.

“Jesus Christ!” Dave stammers. He takes a pocket knife from his bag, one he usually reserves for slicing through gauze, and frees Karkat. He removes the gag. “What the fuck happened?”

Immediately, and just as he'd expect, Karkat begins to speak. “Your brother,” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his head. He's surprisingly unfazed by what's happened to him. In fact, it seems as if he's more concerned about Dave than he is for his own well-being. “I thought you said that incorrigible bastard was dead!”

“I thought he was,” mumbles Dave, his mind suddenly numb. Time seems to slow, and a haze of static overpowers his thoughts.

 _How could Bro still be alive? His death certificate shows he's dead; he's been dead for almost a decade._ Pale hands cover a weary face. What's been learned doesn't make sense. _If he's been alive all this time,_ he finds himself reasoning, _Why is he coming after me now?_

“If it helps, I'm fine. I saw worse shit in Alternia,” Karkat says. He reaches, obviously desperate for words capable of cheering Dave. “C'mon, Strider, this bastard's playing mind games with you. I'm fine! We can get back to filming. Let's go.”

“No,” Dave shakes his head. He straightens, wincing as he does so, before pulling out his phone. He sends a text. “No. Filming is cancelled today. We're done. Go home.”

“But—” Karkat begins to protest.

When Dave responds, he's firm. He pulls from the depths of his soul an assertiveness, an overpowering presence, that he imbues into his words, “Go. Home,” he says, emphatically. “I don't want any more shit to happen than this. I have to sort this out.”

Visibly deflating, Karkat nods. “Yes. Understood.” Reverting back to old troll customs, he bows. “I'll see you later, then, Dave. If you need to talk, I'm always available.” He then slinks off, in a defeated way that somehow makes Dave's heart drop.

It's not his fault. Dave can acknowledge that much. It's in no way Karkat's fault. In fact, it's not even his own fault. This is all caused by one person, a man known for his vitriol and spite. Bro is the source of the discord, now. He knows this. He grasps the fact in every way, but he can't reconcile it with how he feels. He can't overpower the absolute fear, which stews in his stomach and claws its way upward, through his veins, until it has his brain in a searing, vise-like grip.

And, after Karkat has left, it occurs to Dave that, perhaps, Karkat was exactly what he needed. There's a quality to the abrasive troll, a comforting presence that has always managed to quell Dave's normally squeamish reaction to any sense of vulnerability he might have. But, by the time he realizes this, it's too late. Karkat is gone.

A shaky sigh escapes Dave.

* * *

**2 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

Under Dave's direction, filming has been cancelled for today.

Rather than engaging with his crew, or even working on his notes, Dave finds himself doing something he never believed he'd willingly do. He lays on the sofa, with Rose at his side, and stares at the ceiling. To keep himself from losing his increasingly tenuous grip on reality, he forces himself to count the ceiling tiles. It's something he did in the apartment, when he was a child, between strifes with his brother. His hands are folded atop his stomach, and he speaks with a candidness he'd never expect of himself.

“I don't know if I'd call it fear,” he muses, “It's not really shaking in my boots, y'know? It's more like... It's like this kind of lookin’ over your shoulder type thing. I'm seeing him everywhere. Every shadow that moves might just be him, ready to jump me with one of those shitty swords. And I sure as fuck haven't kept up my training routine. I didn't think I'd need it. He'd pummel my ass to fine paste faster than you can say ‘fuck’.”

Rose hums. “That's anxiety.”

“Yeah, well, whatever it is, I don't much like it. In fact, I'd be mighty pleased if it moseyed on off into the sparkling sunset, while the credits of my shitty upbringing roll.” Dave drops his hand down, until his fingers wrap around the bottle of Hardliner he'd put on the floor, and he takes a sizable gulp of the drink. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and setting the bottle back down, he continues, “I think it's the news that's gotten him worked up again. We both know he was a real homophobic bastard. I'm just learning to unlearn that bullshit, and it's hard. He sure as fuck ain't trying to forget it. He probably saw me with Karkat, and decided that warranted an ass-kicking.”

Though she isn't writing down notes, Rose holds a pen in her hand. She absentmindedly clicks it. “And you're afraid that Bro is using Karkat as a means of blackmail?”

“I think he's using him as a hostage, yeah.” Dave groans. He slaps the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Ugh. Fuck feelings. Why do I even care about him? He's a loud, pissy shit.”

Now, Rose smirks. “Well, let me see...” She begins counting off her points on her fingers, relaying words Dave has spoken to her right back at him. “You've mentioned that he is a fine-looking individual, that he makes you feel good, that he makes you laugh, and that he has—and this I am directly quoting—‘a damn remarkable ass’.”

Heat rushes to Dave's cheeks, and he reacts, on instinct, with a snapping retort, “I told you that in confidence!”

“And I remind you that we are the only ones here.” Rose snickers, then reverts to a more serious expression. “You agreed to this psychoanalysis session of your own accord, surprisingly.”

“You're right.” Dave sighs. “I guess... I don't know what to do, Rose. I... Until now, I've just thought I was safe. And, now, knowing that asshole's been peeping on me this whole time, watching my every move? It just makes me feel...” Normally, Dave would be horrified by his inability to remember the word he wants to use. Now, after the events of the past twenty-four hours, he feels only resignation. He pinches the bridge of his nose. The cold metal of his glasses' rims rub against his face. “Ugh. Fuck. What's the word. The word.... It's... It makes me feel...”

“Violated,” Rose supplies.

Dave nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yeah. Thanks. Guess we really are related, since you're able to read my fuckin’ mind.”

A small smile, followed by a pensive glance. “Well, I can't make the decision alone. I think that the best course of action is to defy Bro's wishes. He always was a piece of shit, to be quite frank. We continue filming, resuming tomorrow, and you should speak to Karkat about your feelings. Tell him about your fears, Dave. It'll be good for both of you.”

“You're right,” admits the man, covering his eyes with his forearm. “I sure hate it when you're right.”

“I'm always happy to be right,” chirps Rose.

Dave playfully shoos her. “Whatever.” He pushes himself up, into a sitting position, before transferring to his chair. He turns away, preparing to head to his office, before taking his wireless earpiece from his bath robe's breast pocket. “I'm going to call him. If he's up for it, would you maybe consider driving your _dearest_ brother to his house?”

“Of course,” Rose answers without hesitation. “I'll be more than happy to. It's on the way to Kanaya's, and I was going to visit her, anyhow. Prepare yourself, maybe make yourself look a bit more presentable, and we'll leave once you're ready.”

In a moment of rare vulnerability, Dave offers his sister a genuine smile. “Thanks, Rose. Y'know, I give you a hard time, but I ‘preciate the work you put in to keep me from becoming the next Florida man, even if we don't live in Florida.”

Rose, in turn, answers with a sincerity otherwise reserved for her more intimate, and often romantic relationships, “You're my brother, Dave. I'm always happy to help you out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE COMES SOME PLOT. considering most people call him broseph, i just made bro's name joseph. i'm not dealing with the whole "bro is dirk" thing because that's way too complicated for a slice of life style fic set in the real goddamned world


	23. Space Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to probably not handle the first time you invite your boyfriend to your home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's the link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WKnVaDwUg5s). this is an instrumental song from _cowboy bebop_ , by the seatbelts.

**5 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

When he arrives, his cell phone is dead. The temperature is verging on cold, but hasn’t quite met that threshold, and the sky is just overcast enough to look like it will rain. There’s a moment of panic, and a realization of just how big the estate is. Behind the home, he can see both manicured grounds and untamed wilderness. (After all, this is nearing the outer limits of the city.) His panic is only compounded by the approach of a tall, grimacing man in a fedora. A pale hand shoots through his partially lowered window, and, grabbing him firmly by the collar, it pulls him against the glass.

“Who the fuck are you?” asks the man. According to a pin on his jacket, his name is Slick, and he’s a newly hired security guard. He appears to be from a company called the Midnight Crew.

Not that the details really matter, because, in the time it has taken Karkat to notice them, he’s treated to the barrel of a pistol being waved in his face.

“Who the fuck are you!?” the man repeats.

“Karkat Vantas.” Fumbling, the troll pulls out his driver’s license. “I swear to whatever unknown deity you may believe in that I’m supposed to be here. Ask Dave.”

“Right. I’ve had three people say that today.” Slick rolls his eyes. Though he holsters his gun, he doesn’t return the card. Instead, he takes out a walkie-talkie, all while grumbling about “installing a goddamned gate” and “not being paid enough to put up with this bullshit.” When he speaks to Dave, his tone doesn’t change. He’s just as irate. “Some alien asshole is here to see you. Says his name is Karkat.”

“He’s fine. Let him in.” Dave’s voice buzzes over the tiny speaker, tinny but recognizable, mostly due to his thick and distinct accent. “Door’s unlocked, I’m in the rec room.”

Slick rolls his eyes and ushers Karkat along.

Several dead ends and wrong turns later, after what seems like hours of wandering pointlessly winding halls, Karkat finally manages to locate his boyfriend.

Dave is, as promised, in the recreation room. He’s in the process of beating up an already battered punching bag, the long and heavy sort, which hangs from the ceiling. Spots of its formerly bright red coloration shine through fading, almost pale pink patches. There’s a distinct progression on its surface; two spots show wear, one at a standard level, and another several feet below it.

“Damn. You must have a lot of pent up anger, Strider,” Karkat comments.

Dave turns. He smirks. He’s not wearing any sort of gloves, (aside from the usual fingerless variety that he seems to favor) so he easily transitions to approaching Karkat. “I’d say you’re closer to the one with anger issues, dude.” He smirks.

Karkat laughs. He hands over his gift, which he’d carefully wrapped in some silver wrapping paper. (Not that he needed to. The item’s shape makes it obvious that it’s the extra large Kit-Kat bar Dave had been musing about for the past twenty-four hours via text.) “Where’s Rose?”

Dave shrugs. He tilts back, balancing on the two larger wheels of his chair. He takes it as a challenge, expertly holding himself in the position as he continues speaking, “Where the fuck d’you think, Karkat?”

It takes only a single second of consideration for the troll to admit his lapse in judgement. “Okay. Fair point, asshole.”

“Of course it is.” Another smirk. There’s a rattling thud, and Dave lands back on all four wheels. He rubs the back of his neck as he continues, now pointedly avoiding any eye contact, “I don’t really know what I’m s’posed to be doin’, now. Honestly? This is the first time I’ve been one-on-one with someone else in my own house since I was, like, nineteen? And, that time, it was with some random chick. Her name was Cindy. She was real sweet, thought I had a bad boy charm, or something like that.” His fidgeting moves, progressing to repeatedly smoothing over his pants legs. “We were supposed to do the nasty, but I chickened out. Was that way too much information? It probably was. So. Uh...”

“Okay, we’ll start by forgetting you ever said anything that’s just eagerly ejected itself from your wildly flapping maw within the span of the past minute or so.” In spite of his words, Karkat can’t help by find something nice about the way Dave rambles. There’s a frankness to it, a brutal, natural honesty, which speaks to an innately genuine personality. “Honestly? Sort of same deal. I don’t think there’s as many years between when I was fifteen and when you were, though.”

Dave feigns offense. “Are you calling me old!?”

“Yes,” is the troll’s flat reply.

“Solid. Understandable. Hold on. I'm going to... uh... I'm using the bathroom.”

It's fairly obvious that this is a cover story. Dave isn't using the bathroom, but Karkat doesn't bother him about this. Whatever is happening is Dave's problem. So, instead, he nods, waves his boyfriend on, and waits.

He studies the surroundings, wandering around the rec room. It's a surprisingly modest space, featuring little more than basic exercise equipment. There's a singular treadmill, obviously Rose's, and some weight machines. In the corner, where Dave had been, is a small collection of punching bags and a pair of faded boxing gloves. Once deep black, they've been worn to a faded grey. Speakers at the center of each wall, mounted from the ceiling, are tuned to most popular local station.

With little more to do, Karkat sits on the singular leg extension machine. He listens to the voice of the radio announcer, smooth and deep, “Hello. This is Perd Hapley, and you're listening to WSKA, Skaia Amp, your bet source for local news and variety music. Today, on _Ya Heard? with Perd_ , we're discussing the opening of a local barcade. Cabinet Case is now open, in the Mobius Addition. Serving up brews, games, and fun! We're here, with the owner of this new—”

 

Locked in the nearest coat closet, Dave Strider dials the only person he can think of.

Rose is busy with Kanaya, and only the Lord, himself, could actually know what they're doing; though most people can certainly and rightfully assume what they're doing. Dirk is tied up with media inquiries about his financial practices. Jade has taken a week off, and is with friends at the beach. (Specifically, Dave recalls her mentioning she was going to someplace in North Carolina, apparently called Duck.) That leaves only one option. It's by no means the  _best_ option, but it's the only one he has.

He dials John's home number.

A few seconds later, after what feels like an eternity of ringing, a familiar voice greets him. “ _Heeeello_ ,” he greets, drawing out the vowel, “You've reached producer John Egbert. What's—?”

Dave doesn't give his friend time to finish. He interjects, his voice frantic, “This was  _your_ idea, Egbert,” he hisses, “What the fuck am I supposed to do!?”

There's a brief pause, followed by a soft chuckle. Dave can picture it in his mind—the way the edges of John's eyes wrinkle when he smiles, with those stupid buck teeth of his—and the beating of his heart only intensifies. Now, it rings in his ears, and only the wholesome calm of John's reply can dampen the din. “Oh! Dave! You invited Karkat over? That's great! What're you doing calling me?”

“I don't know what to do, John,” Dave counters. He does something Rose has always advised him to do in times like these. He takes a moment to step back. He breathes in, then out. He repeats this a few more times. Then, having managed to gain a bit of control over his own nerves, he continues, “The last person I ever had over was you...”

“ _Well_ ,” begins John, once again lengthening the vowel.

Again, Dave interjects, “Okay, the one night flings don't count. I'm saying that the last time I had  _anyone_ over for any sort of  _real serious-like_ shit was you, and that went about as great as boiling up some gasoline stew. I'm absolutely fuckin’ lost, dude, and...” A pause. Dave reaches out, running his hand down the soft fabric of one of Rose's many hand-knitted sweaters. “I really don't want to fuck this up, John,” he admits, his voice soft. There's a part of him that doesn't want Karkat to hear, and there's another, separate part, which is inexplicably ashamed of his own openness. “I really do like him.”

Always the bringer of better feelings, John, responds with his own quirky brand of comfort. “You like him? Do you mean you like him, or do you  _like-like_ him?”

Dave sighs dramatically, but the commentary manages to lighten his mood. “I  _like-like_ him, John.”

“Oh, shit, then this is  _serious_! Well, your place is full of things to do. Ask him what he wants to do, then go with it. Talk to him, lay on that old Strider charm.” The smile on John's face is present in his voice.

And, somehow, this manages to embolden Dave. He nods. “Yeah. That makes sense. Thanks, nerd.”

“Any time!” John laughs. “Oh, and, hey, before you go?”

“Huh?”

“Good luck, Casanova.”

Now, it's Dave's turn to laugh. “That movie's too good for you to have watched it, stupid.”

“You're absolutely right. Now, go out there and date Karkat before he thinks you ditched him, you idiot!” With this said, John hangs up.

With fresh vigor and newfound confidence, Dave exits his hiding place and returns to the rec room. He finds Karkat laid out, sprawling on the floor, and mumbling along to the lyrics of  _Take on Me_. He breaks his odd trance state by gently nudging him with the footplate of his chair. “Sorry for that. What'cha want to do? we've got plenty of shit to entertain ourselves around here.”

Sitting up, with long lashes blinking away a pop-induced haze, Karkat shrugs. “It's your house, Strider. I don't know what you have to do around here, besides wank to the money that I'm sure as hell flows out of your shower head every morning.”

“We have a little arcade. You want to maybe go and hang out there? We've got... uh...” His brain flounders to find the word. He knows it, it's a movie title, it's one of John's favorites, but he can't quite recall it right now. So, instead, to save face, he simply provides the most bare-bones descriptor he can, “Pinball.”

“Sounds fine with me. You have a quarter machine?”

“Just press the button and they'll start up. No big deal.”

 

One thing that Karkat takes away from his visit is that Dave is an absolute beast at pinball. The StriLondes are in possession of three unique pinball machines, each interesting in their own right. When they arrived in the room, Dave gave him information and background on each. All three machines were made by Stern, and all three are the top tier of their runs, the limited editions. They've been upgraded with all the optional toys and gadgets, including custom flippers and bumper decals. The oldest is an odd but difficult machine, with a simple analog display,  _Phantom of the Opera_. (Apparently, of no relation to the musical. This fact, alone, disappoints Karkat enough to avoid playing it.) Then, there's the brightly colored and rather garish  _Mustang_ table, featuring mostly ramps and drop-down target shots. Finally, there's the  _Ghostbusters_ table. Of the three, this one seems like the most fun, and the pair have spent the majority of their time going back and forth on this table.

While Karkat hasn't even managed to make the high score listings, Dave has broken the number one spot not once, not twice, but goddamned thrice. He seems to know the best shots to score big, and he's beyond adept at the game's preprogrammed story missions. His play sessions last upwards of thirty minutes, though he compensates by letting Karkat go a few times in a row before switching.

Right now, Dave is playing. Karkat is simply watching over his shoulder. In the back of his mind, he registers how hard this would be if Dave could stand. Seeing over Dave, and his hulking six foot tall person, would be a challenge for a troll of just over five feet. Unlike his boyfriend, Dave is able to engage in casual conversation and still keep his game going. At this point, it seems to be muscle memory. “Pretty cool dating someone with a private arcade, right?” he says, clearly bragging.

Karkat shrugs. In all honesty, in his grand life plan, money hadn't really been a factor. He'd always just hoped to make enough to make ends meet. “I guess.”

“Ya guess?” Dave laughs. “So, guess that proves you ain't shacking up with me for money. What're you in it for, then? You want some choice recommendations to other agencies, because I'm more than happy to provide that. Dating me's basically free industry experience on your resumé.”

Karkat wrinkles his nose at the suggestion. He understands where it comes from, and he can see the skepticism. Obviously, there's a part of Dave that will always be wary of relationships, but the mere idea that he'd be simply using the man for power or influence offends the troll. “Maybe I'm dating your insufferable ass because I find the particular arrangement of your facial features to be attractive,” he snaps. “Maybe I just like spending time with you. When you're not being an overbearing fuck-all douchelord, you're actually pretty fun to be around.”

Dave shrugs the compliment off, as he often does. “Nice t'know. Just checking to make sure we're on the same wavelength,” he drops a few vowels along the way to the end of his statement, verging on a few more than is even acceptable for his particular brand of southern. “I... uh... Fuck. Wow. Okay.” He lets the ball drain down the middle, watching as it bounces back and forth between the flippers. His score comes up, informing him that he's broken the number five spot, and he inputs his initials into a wall of other declarations of ‘DES’. He backs away, not bothering to slip his gloves back on before doing so. “Tell me how you really feel, huh?”

“Like I don't already do that all the goddamned time?” Karkat asks, raising his right brow. His arms are folded firmly across his chest. Nonetheless, he senses this is a touchy topic. He switches gears. “What's with the gloves? I don't think I've ever rudely shoved my olfactory cartilage into that matter.”

This seems to remind Dave of his prior omission. He pulls the tattered gloves from his pocket and slips them on, securing them firmly around his wrists with sturdy velcro straps. He wiggles his fingers a few times, for a reason Karkat can't discern, before responding. One arm leans against his knees, pulling his body forward, so that it's supported against it; the other reaches up, to fix his lopsided shades. “Lots of reasons. They're pretty fuckin’ stylish, first of all.”

“You look like an idiot. Then again, you always look like that.”

“Thanks.” A flash of a smile. “They're mostly for function, actually.” The way he pronounces ‘actually’ toes the line of making it an entirely new word. He omits vowels, taking out an entire syllable, until it phonetically resembles something close to ‘act-ee-ly’. Another of his odd, but strangely appealing quirks. “It keeps my hands compressed, and makes it easier for me to grip the wheels. Human skin isn't meant to be a brake pad, ya feel?”

“Hm.” Now that it's been said, it makes sense. “Well, while I'm taking a vulgar, prying look into your personal details, why don't I just keep asking questions?”

Dave straightens, pressing against his knees, until he's regained a balance between the straightness of his back and the stability of his body. “Sure. Might as well, seeing as we're datin’. Toss me a line, I'll see if I feel like biting it, but there're a few topics I might just remit. Don't really have many issues with your queries, spin out some crude asks and tell me ‘bout your theories.”

“Fine, Doctor goddamned Seuss.” Karkat rolls his eyes. He's heard Dave do this before, performing short, impromptu raps, and he's always found it to be a mixture of laughable and admirable. After all, _he_ certainly can't think of rhymes on the spot. “You... uh... You can't...” His horns begin to burn, hot and red. “Your...”

“No.” The answer is soft, almost embarrassed. A shaky hand combs through otherwise sleekly styled hair. “Nah. I mean, I could, but I wouldn't be doin’... much. You just cut straight to it, huh?”

“I'm asking because I want to know how to make you happy, you presumptuous jerkwad,” Karkat snaps. He doesn't mean to, it just naturally happens. It's a reaction to a response he knew was coming, but still somehow didn't expect. “So to speak, what... uh...”

Dave rubs a gloved hand against his chin. “You're asking me how to make me hot and bothered? Damn. Eager.”

“I'm not!” Karkat sputters. He should be used to his boyfriend's casual goading by now. It's been a facet of their relationship since before they even bothered to consider they even liked each other. And, yet, it still manages to throw him off. “I... Fuck. Damn. SHIT!”

A hearty laugh escapes Dave. He wheels over, claps Karkat on his lower back, and grins. “I'm yanking your leg. Your, uh... What do trolls call them?”

“Locomotive appendages.”

“Fuck that shit. I'm sticking to ‘leg’.” There's a pause, now, and the expression on the man's face falters, falling to be more in line with a solemn frown. “Look, I'm kind of a fuckin’ mess, so we should maybe slow down some, but... uh... You remember me tellin’ you there are some spots I feel? Mostly around my outer thighs and some along my left leg. The area ‘round my injury's pretty sensitive, too.”

Karkat remembers, now, the speed with which Dave had pushed his hand away, when he'd come close to touching that particular area. A lightbulb goes off. “Oh. Okay. I respect your wishes.”

“Yeah.” There's a brief silence, one that's oddly tense, before Dave clears his throat. “How would you feel if I announced our relationship? I mean, don't take this the wrong way. I ain't looking to use you for scandal fodder, but I'd like to make the rumors not as weird and creepy, y'know? Just tell everyone something like, ‘Yes, we're together. It ain't anything to worry yourselves over, and we're both in it voluntarily.’ How would you feel about that?”

Karkat finds himself smiling. There's something nice about Dave's honesty, about the sheer innocence of him even offering to keep the relationship quiet. There's no way for him to refuse. “Go the fuck ahead with it, Strider. I'm already tits deep in your bullshit.”

A grin spreads across Dave's face. “Come here. Let me pay you back for exposing yourself to whatever sort of media shitstorm you're about to get into.” He beckons the troll to him, twitching his index and middle fingers.

Finding no reason to object, and with a heart pounding out a beat of fierce anticipation, Karkat steps forward. His wrist is taken into a gentle, loose grasp, one he'd easily be able to break free of, should he desire. The thing is, he doesn't want to break away. He allows himself to give in. He leans over, so Dave can properly reach him, and he feels a sturdy, strong arm wrap around the back of his neck.

Dave hoists himself up, until his lips touch Karkat's, and there's a moment of pure bliss. There's enough energy between the two to seem as if there's a storm of static between them, that at once wants them to be together and to pull them apart. There's a powerful strength in Dave's movements, and the way his muscles hold him, suspended several inches above his chair, but his actual touch—the way his other hand presses against Karkat's cheek—is gentle. It's a spark, long kindled in the back of Karkat's mind, that takes to tinder, and turns to a raging inferno. It's everything that he's ever thought of, all he'd ever dreamed of, coming true in a single second.

Then, after what feels like forever, but is truly little more than a minute, it ends. Dave pulls back, wincing as both legs begin shaking. “Ow. Shit. That was a stupid move.”

Karkat, on instinct, catches Dave. With his arms beneath Dave's legs, he can feel their structure. There's little muscle left, just some bulk, maintained by involuntary movement. He helps him back into the chair, watching, idly, as the man readjusts.

Once he's back in a seated position, the shaking comes to a stop. After a few seconds, the only evidence is the persistent but weak up-and-down bobbing of his stronger right leg. His shades are askew, and the one eye that's visible is alight, glowing with an emotion Karkat can't quite place. A smile—small, modest, and withdrawn—is plastered on an otherwise unperturbed face. “Holy shit,” breathes Dave.

Karkat responds similarly, offering a stunned nod. “Fuck.”

“I think I love you,” Dave blurts, and his face immediately flushes bright red.

Karkat smirks. “You know what, dumbass? I think it's mutual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at kanaya's house, they're popping the biggest non-alcoholic bottles


	24. All That's Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dispelling some rumors doesn't come without professing some affections in a public forum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a link to the deaf west edition of the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2L1X-FrGM2Q), also known as the better version, and the [original version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJnwd-FsE4c).

**6 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

Karkat wakes slowly, savoring the radiating warmth of a body next to him. He finds his arms wrapped softly around something—no, wait, it's some _one_. He smells of old cardboard record sleeves, tobacco, and coffee, with the smallest hint of cinnamon. Sun streams through gently billowing curtains, casting dancing shadows against scars that are almost pure white. His breathing is calm, but strange, a mix between a standard snore and a hoarse wheeze. To Karkat's embarrassment, (and, in a way, pride) a dark hickey sticks out against the pale backdrop of the base of Dave's neck, near his right shoulder.

After laying in bed for a few more minutes, soaking in the moment, the troll quietly slips out of the bed and slinks away, to the kitchen. Once there, he takes full advantage of Rose's meticulous cataloging of her ingredients. It's easier to make a decent breakfast here than it is to tie his own house. Within thirty minutes or so, he's prepared a fine breakfast medley of sausage, scrambled eggs (with fresh chives, sweet peppers, and some other spices), and coffee. He sneaks into Dave's room, setting down his own breakfast first, atop the bedside table. Then, he retrieves Dave's. He nudges the man awake, offering a smile so soft that he surprises himself. He immediately counteracts it. “Wake on up, dumbass, we've got four hours until filming starts.”

Dave groans. He reaches his hand out, fumbling blindly on the table for his shades. After he finds them, and slips them on, he yawns. “Shit. Something smells good. Is Rose home?”

“No, I made us some breakfast.”

Dave takes his plate with a look that's nothing short of awe. “You really didn't have to do that, dude, I could have just picked us up something on the way.”

“Yeah, well, I figured I would. I had to pay you back for letting me stay over last night, right?” By the time Karkat has gathered his own breakfast and taken a seat on the bed, Dave is already digging into his. “What're the plans for today, by the way? What sort of bullshit will I be subjected to?”

Dave shrugs. Through a mouthful of food, he mumbles, “Holy fuckin’ shit on a stick, this is good.”

“Thanks, idiot, but that wasn't the question I asked, now, was it?”

“Nope.” Dave swallows his food. From his bedside drawer, he takes a pill box. He downs a handful with a hearty sip of coffee before continuing, “I don't really know, t'be fair. I'm having an interview today, if you wanna join in. You'll have to clean out that mouth of yours, though.”

“Sure. Guess we're riding together?”

“Rose still has my license, so that's a fuck yeah, buddy.” A beat. “Hey, how'd you know how I like my coffee?”

“Honey, milk, two teaspoons of sugar?” Karkat recites the ingredients with a wry smile. “I could be mysterious, and claim that I simply have that intuition. Alas, I just asked Rose a few days ago, when you invited me over.”

From Dave, there comes a small snicker. He punches Karkat on the shoulder. He's inhaled his breakfast; it's already gone. In fact, he's already put on his gloves and is in the process of getting ready. He lifts himself from the bed, and plops into his chair. He moves quickly, gliding around the bed and to the bedroom. The setup of the bathroom means that the sink is in full view through the open door, and Karkat can easily see Dave shaving.

“Have you ever considered growing out your facial hair?” the troll asks.

Dave shrugs. “Not really. Reminds me too much of my brother, so I always keep my face smooth and clean. Fresh, like a sweet babe’s ass. Anyhow, no offense, but I've got to empty my bladder, take a shower, and worm my way into some goddamned clothes. You mind leaving?”

“What, like I haven't already seen you in your underwear?” Karkat counters. He means it as a playful jab, but the serious look on Dave's face is enough to tell him that this isn't a line of teasing he should continue to pursue. He nods, scrambles to his feet, and collects the dishes. “I'll go clean this shit. I'll see you when you're ready?”

“Of course.” Dave smiles, the formerly solemn expression now a distant memory.

 

About an hour later, Dave emerges into the living room. He's cleaned himself up well, and he almost manages to look like a seasoned professional. (Of course, he's Dave goddamned Strider. Knowing what he does about him, there's no way Karkat can ever truly see Dave as the formal business sort.) He wears his usual getup, the classic red suit. A black silk bow tie complements the lapels, made of the same material, and he approaches with two pairs of gloves on his lap, both unique in the fact that they cover his fingers. One is a creamy white, which matches his shirt. At the wrist, they close with a black hook-and-loop system. The other pair is black, with white edging and stitching. He holds them out to Karkat as he inquires, “Which one looks better? I'm always nervous as hell ‘bout interviews.”

“Really? You're a fucking natural,” Karkat comments, studying both pairs of gloves. “Is it dirty outside?”

“Hm.” There's an epiphanic look on his face. “You're right. Fuck, dude. Usin’ that damned noodle. Black won't pick up as much dirt.”

“I try my best.” Karkat smiles. “By the way, you missed a call from Rose.”

“Did I?” Dave lounges in his chair, pulling his left leg so that it crosses over his right. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely riveting. What'd she say?”

“Oh, well, I talked to her. We really get along great. She says congrats on the hickey.” There's a definite smugness in Karkat's voice. In fact, Dave's resultant blush is well worth his commentary. He makes note of it, so he can describe it to Rose later.

* * *

**6 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios**  
1102 Bayfont Pl.  
Skaia City  
Day 50 of filming

Behind a curtain of glossy paper, printed with the golden TMDco logo, Dave Strider finds himself trying to wiggle away from his sister's pesky interference. He bats her hand away, but it always comes back, trying to smooth out stray hairs and fix any loose threads on his suit.

“Tsk. You'll be fine, Dave. Calm down.” Rose shakes her head. “Ugh. Karkat happily lets Kanaya dote on him and fix all the things wrong with _his_ outfit, and they're not even related! Can't you just sit still for five seconds!?”

“Nope.” In an act of friendly spite, Dave musses his hair slightly. “You really think this is a good idea? I mean... If Bro is actually still out there, he's gonna be mighty pissed that I'm a raging bisexual idiot, isn't he?”

“Let him be pissed,” Rose shrugs. “We'll handle that asshole. We're bigger than he is, in every possible sense of that word. Business-wise, this will likely disentangle you from a majority of the conundrum you've found yourself in. And, on a personal level, do you not desire the ability to put your affections for Karkat on full blast, internationally, for everyone to know?”

“Mmm. He does have a nice ass,” Dave sighs.

Rose snickers. She punches him on the shoulder, then shoves him towards the side of the dressing area.

Here, he reunites with Karkat.

 

“You're going to do fine.” Karkat grins. He hopes it doesn't look intimidating. Some humans seem to find troll teeth frightening, considering they're pointed, but Dave doesn't appear to. Either way, he hands the man a stick of nicotine gum, which is taken into eager hands. “Your first major goddamned interview in public since the accident, and my first interview since I was fucking born. What could go wrong!?”

“So much shit,” Dave laughs. “Look, if it's too much for you, just tap my shoulder. I'll get you skeedaddled on outta’ there, because it's going to be crazy as shit. We're going full-blown, balls-to-the-wall nuts. Oh. Shit. Take off the prop coat. It's covered in fake blood.”

Karkat freezes. There's something hilarious about him forgetting to remove a bloodied coat, but he's too anxious to register the humor. Instead, he simply throws aside the coat. (Off to the side, Kanaya's claws rip through the curtain she's hiding behind. Rose pulls her back.) “I'm ready if you are.”

“Ready as I'll ever be.” After readjusting his lapels, Dave leads the way out.

Following close behind, Karkat finds himself thrown into a world of flashing bulbs and clamoring journalists. Until now, he'd censored out their droning inquiries; now, he can't ignore them. He finds himself staring, wide-eyed and bewildered, into what seemed like a dozen lenses at once. When the main interviewer speaks, the voice is distant and muffled.

“Hello, this is Calico Triyad, here with TMDco, and famed film director, David Elizabeth Strider. With him is Karkat Vantas, the star of the upcoming  _Study in Monochrome_.” The female troll smiles, and it's tight-lipped and reserved. She brushes her fingers through the streak of pink in her hair. This seems to be a fairly new addition. “We're here on Mr. Strider's request, as he's sent out a bulletin, saying that he has some news to break to us. So, Mr. Strider, what is it that you'd like to say?”

A gloved hand reaches out, gently wrapping around Karkat's. The contact brings the troll back down, ground him in reality. The fog of overwhelming confusion begins to clear, and the more he clings to the sound of Dave's voice, the more present he becomes.

“Yes, Calico, I'm here to make one hell of an announcement. I'm fully aware of the accusations bein’ leveled at me, and I'd like to counter with the fact that it ain't any sort of scandal. Let it be known that Karkat and I are in a mutual relationship. It ain't related to the rumors, though. We just kind of...” Dave pauses. He rubs his chin.

Karkat, emboldened by the sudden awareness of the confidence Dave has in him, speaks up. “We've been friends since we met on set, and it grew from there. This was a natural progression.”

“I see.” Calico seems taken aback by the sudden interjection, but she expertly handles the change in pace. “And what do you think of your boss, Mr. Vantas?”

“I think he's—” it takes a distinct self-awareness for Karkat to keep his mouth in check, and, even then, he doesn't completely censor himself, “—I think he's amazing. You can say whatever you want about him, but he only acts like that because he understands the inherent talent that all of his cast and crew have. He'll bust his ass to make sure everyone is safe.”

“I understand.” Calico nods. “Mr. Strider, it seems that you have quite a devoted boyfriend.”

Dave, Karkat notices, is beaming. It's a look of pride. “I do, Miss Calico,” he announces. “So, you have my announcement, don't'cha?”

“Indeed, we do!” Calico, too, is smiling. It's more subdued, with a touch of slyness, but (oddly enough) it’s also brimming with pride. “Thank you, then, Mr. Strider. Mr. Vantas. For now, this is Calico Triyad, with TMDco. Signing off.”


	25. Beautiful Mirage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected acts of aggression shake up how some things are arranged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [song link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r90zLIQclDo). this is from the soundtrack to _metal gear solid v_. the full song title is technically _beautiful mirage - an unexpected visitor_. warning in the second half for fighting, but nothing super gory. if you don't want to read it, ctrl+f for jesus christ. sounds like a shitpost but it's not lol.

**7 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

Dave Strider finds himself in front of a mirror. He studies his face, picking out every imperfection—every old scratch, acne mark, and scar. He considers a question, one posed quite recently, by a person he greatly respects. Closing his eyes, he tries to visualize it. He cycles through various styles of facial hair, starting with what he knows best, a thin soul patch. On him, it's repulsive. He's not sure if it's just the memories attached to the style, or if he truly hates it on his face. Either way, he quickly rejects it.

To be quite honest, he's never really thought of anything else. Keeping his face clean-shaven is simply habit, now. The only time he's ever really had a beard was years ago, back when he was on blood thinning medications. The minute he was taken off of them, he shaved. By then, his beard had grown to be thick, but not exactly bushy. He kept it trimmed, much as Rose had kept his facial hair in check for him while he was in a coma. He didn't exactly like having a beard, it was just a side effect of his health.

He breathes a long sigh.

Maybe he's thinking too deeply about this. Maybe it was just a simple question. It's not as if Karkat had explicitly stated he _wanted_ or _preferred_ for Dave to stop shaving. So, after a few moments of thought, the man opens his eyes. He continues his daily routine, removing the thin, coarse hairs that have grown overnight. About halfway through, a knock on the door startles him. A yelp accompanies a stinging pain on his cheek. He drops the razor, grumbling for a few moments before he responds, “Dammit, Rose! What!?”

“Would you be terribly perturbed should I enter your room?” his sister inquires.

Studying the fresh wound, Dave finds it to be long, but shallow. For the time being, he sticks some toilet paper over it. He grabs his gloves from the countertop, and goes to meet Rose. He tends to keep his bedroom door locked, especially in light of recent events. (Unbeknownst to him, Rose has clones of every house key. She simply doesn't use them unless there's an emergency.) After turning the deadbolt, he greets his sibling with crossed arms and furrowed brows. “What?” he asks, crossly.

Rose, obviously sensing she's disturbed him, offers a small smile. “I was simply wondering whether or not you made that extra sausage and scrambled egg mix in the fridge. It was lovely.”

Dave pauses. He rubs his face, inadvertently reopening the scabbing-over scrape. He curses. “Fuck. Nah. That was Karkat.”

“Ah. So Kanaya and Karkat are both adept chefs,” Rose nods. From her pocket, she produces a bandage. “I got a phone call this morning. This was actually the matter I came to speak to you about, I merely decided to open with a more lighthearted topic. Although, before I progress this discussion further, I would like for you to thank Karkat for leaving some extras in the fridge. There's enough for a plate for you, too. Slick found what was quite obviously a crude explosive at our doorstep this morning. He took it to police, and he's on the way back.”

As Dave sticks on the adhesive bandage, (which, to his chagrin, is emblazoned with pastel pink hearts) he considers the implications of the news. “Any address on it?”

“No return address. There were also no postal markings. This was dropped off, fresh, and by hand. It was specifically addressed to you.” As Dave would expect, his sister is remarkably calm about all of this. She retains her usual stoicism, showing only brief flashes of anxiety. They're so incredibly subtle, simple signs that would go far above the heads of most—a microscopic twitch of her lips, the way her fingers pick at the fabric of her skirt, and how her hair isn't quite as styled as usual.

“Handwriting?” Dave asks. He doesn't know how to handle other people's discomfort; he barely knows how to handle his own. A lifetime of isolation has cultivated an entire catalog of stunted emotional growth.

Rose, unmoved by (and, perhaps, a bit accustomed, or maybe even resigned to) her brother's apparent lack of concern for her, sighs. “No, we found no distinct features in the handwriting of the message. It was produced on a standard home printer, and attached with tape.”

A hum of consideration from Dave. It's a low sound. “‘Kay. So, then, what're you suggestin’ we do about this nasty bullshit? I ain't about to roll on out there and throw myself headfirst into the Running of the pissed off older sibling Bulls. That's just a surefire way to get me killed. And, honestly? Being real, _real_ fuckin’ honest with you, I'm not too keen on dying at this exact minute in time.”

Rose shrugs. She leans against the threshold, which leads from Dave's room to the glass-lined hallway. Past her, the manicured greenery of the courtyard is visible. “I've phoned Miss Paint. She's agreed to come and take care of the house, under Slick's supervision, of course. We should leave, and take refuge elsewhere, at least until this all blows over.”

A bitter snort of laughter, with no accompanying smile, escapes Dave. “This ain't coolin’ over, and we both know that, sis. The only way this ends is with someone dead or in jail.” Shaking fingers tug at hair that, in this lighting, seems almost white. “Fuck. I'll get all my shit together. Could I maybe stay with you? I know you'll be scoodling on over to Kanaya's, so...”

“What about Karkat?” inquires Rose, her brows raised high. She's shocked.

Dave, in turn, explains his reasoning. “It's too obvious, and his place ain't the most accessible. I know you've said Kanaya's is just a few steps to a porch, and she's got a guest bedroom on the first floor. Karkat's building has all these dumbass song-and-dance-around-the-ADA-regulations rules about using the elevator. I'd have to call the front desk any time I wanted to leave, because it's under lock and key. Somethin’ stupid, I bet.”

Rose nods. “I'll ask. I'm sure she won't be opposed to allowing you to stay over.” She turns, her long skirt twisting and trailing gracefully, before commenting as she walks away, “I left you a plate on the counter. Toss it in the microwave. You should eat something other than donuts and microwave meals for breakfast.”

“Thanks, _Mom_ ,” Dave goads, slamming his door shut behind him.

In the back of his mind, he briefly recalls a discussion he'd had with Slick, while the two had shared a smoke break. The security guard had spoken of a woman he's dating, mentioning that her first name was Ingrid, but that he didn't know her last name. She was a maid, and he believed the last name started with a ‘P’. He has a creeping suspicion that Slick will be boning their maid, but he doesn't really care, so long as they clean up after themselves. 

 

Kanaya's voice is as precise and articulate as Rose has come to expect. It's a sturdy rock against the buffeting oceanic squall of recent events. Nonetheless, over the phone, a certain depth is lost. It's less spectacular than it is in person, and part of Rose is excited to have a chance to be around the melodious sound more often. “Of course, dear, I am perfectly happy to accept Dave into my home. I will clear out the guest bedroom for him, and make sure everything is in order. Do you have any special requests, or would he?”

Rose considers the question for a moment. “As long as the bathroom is sufficiently sized, and he has access to a decent shower, or even a relatively low-walled tub, he'll be fine.”

“The downstairs guest room has a lovely walk-in glass shower. There is a small step into it, but it is otherwise large enough to fit two standard-sized individuals. Is this an acceptable arrangement? Should the bed be lowered?”

“Oh, no, that's wonderful! Thank you!” Rose can't help but smile. “This is perfect. I must reiterate my expression of gratitude. I owe you some drinks out, feel free to redeem the alcohol at any time. I'll see you at filming today.”

“I look forward to it,” Kanaya practically sings.

The call ends.

* * *

**10 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios - Green Room**  
Day 54 of filming

Between takes, Karkat sits on a painted step, alongside Sollux. The two have been sharing a family-sized bag of Cheetos, and both have been complaining the entire time of the taste. Why they continue to indulge in the snacks is beyond their understanding; perhaps they're just that damned hungry. Nonetheless, as Karkat downs another handful, he listens to Sollux's commentary.

“Congrats on the hook-up, dude. I'm really happy for you. It'd be a lot better if these things didn't taste like eating cardboard!” He grins, showcasing his fangs. “And, honestly? The dude isn't all that bad. He's just a little annoying, but I think he's an okay guy.”

“Since when were you two friends?” scoffs Karkat. “I thought the two of you hated each other. You've said so many derogatory things about him that I could build a wall, capable of spanning the circumference of this pitiful waterlogged planet multiple times over. What fucking gives? Are you pulling my locomotive appendage?”

“Am I what?” Behind red-blue lenses, Sollux's eyes widen in confusion. “What!?”

“It's a human saying, I guess?” Karkat rubs the back of his neck, inadvertently smearing vibrant orange across the white fabric of his shirt. When he realizes what he's done, he curses. “Fuck.”

“To answer your question,” Sollux says, sensing that his friend will soon be departing, undoubtedly to see the costume designer and clothier of the set. “He invited me to dinner recently. Just us. He's a pretty nice guy. He spent the whole thing talking about you, and asking about what sort of shit you like. He's really... Hm... He acts cool, but he's really just a huge, squirrely nerd. He fidgeted the whole time, and kept throwing ideas for gifts and expensive cruises and trips he could give to you.”

Karkat pauses. His horns fade, turning from orange and yellow to a solid pink, and he offers a nervous laugh. “Really? What did you say?”

“What do you fucking think I said, KK?” Knocking back his head, Sollux takes a huge gulp from his can of soda. He smirks, and precedes his answer with a nasal laugh. “I told him you're the biggest hopeless romantic I've ever met. KK, someone could literally pull a crushed can from the trash, and if they said they loved you, you'd think it was the most refuse-chute-loosening thing the world has ever known.”

“Says the bastard who parades his love for his girlfriend around all the time!” Karkat snaps, his horns now burning red.

Another chortle. “Yeah, but I have some fucking taste,” he lisps. He waves his hand, dismissing his friend, “Go and get yourself changed. That orange shit is going to stain, and then we both know that Kanaya's going to skin your ass and wear it as a belt.”

“Fuck!” Karkat leaps to his feet. He snatches up his own drink—a Styrofoam cup, half-filled with a mixture that's now a bit of soda and a lot of melted ice.

As luck would have it, on the way, he manages to literally run into Manlee. His drink explodes, coating the front of his already stained shirt with the muddy brown remnants of the carbonated beverage, and he lands firmly on his ass. He groans.

Seeming to watch as the less muscular of the pair scrambles on the floor, scooping up all the pieces of his busted cup, Manlee comments, “Hey, I heard you're officially dating the director. Congrats.”

Sensing that something stupid is to come, Karkat intervenes, “Thanks.”

“Yeah. Nice gig, dude. You just have to take care of him, and he pays you back with whatever you want.” Manlee is smiling. It's beyond Karkat's ability to understand whether or not it's outright oblivious or smug. He can't figure out if Manlee is aware of what he's saying, but he definitely isn't keeping tabs on Karkat's reactions to his words. “Bastard's loaded, right? I bet you just ask him for money and he'll just fork it on over. You're really something, acting like you actually like him!”

Karkat's claws extend slightly, perhaps a centimeter, to their full length. His lips twitch, forming minuscule hints of a snarl, one he tries to keep in check. He doesn't bother to speak; he knows he'll just say something stupid.

“Don't you think it's funny, dude? Man, you've got him on a damned string. He's eating up your lies.” Manlee's hands burrow into the pockets of his slacks. “It's wild to think that bastard could think  _anyone_ could love him but you've got the acting chops to make it happen. I oughtta’ refer you to my agent. He'll—”

Karkat snaps. He lashes out. It's an uncoordinated attack. In school, he was always the bullied, and never the bully. He doesn't know a thing about fighting, only the few hints Dave has given him. In what seems like slow motion, claws come into contact with skin. Every ounce of strength in his body is behind the swing, and the attack digs in, like sharpened knives, opening four parallel lines across Manlee's chest. From the wounds oozes deep, royal purple.

Manlee staggers back, brows furrowed, teeth bared. His blood grants him much sharper teeth than Karkat's; they're finely pointed, like a piranha's. “What the fuck was that about, you idiot!?” He throws a punch, which easily connects with the side of a stunned Karkat's face. “I was complimenting you, stupid!”

“I'm not fucking faking it!” Karkat declares. He knows, in his heart, that he's not as innately honest as Dave. It's true that, beneath his affections, there's a little bit of greed, but that's not his prime motivation. He moves, preparing to lash out again, only to be blind-sided by another powerful blow. It hits his left temple, and his vision fills with stars. The impact rebounds, and his head slams into the wall of the hallway he's in. In the back of his mouth, he tastes iron.

“Oh.” Manlee's voice is oddly quiet. “I get it. You're a mutant blood, huh? So you don't really fit in anywhere? That must be why the two of you like each other. You're both freaks!” He's knelt down, and there's a goofy grin on his face. It's obvious that he expects his words to be taken as a joke.

Unfortunately for both trolls, they're more like a knife against an old wound. Old memories surface—recesses spent alone, meals eaten at empty lunch tables, and vulgar notes taped to belongings. Just as with embarrassment, his horns react; they flush red, but it's more vivid, now, more violent. It's not the slow, creeping gradient of a bashful blush, but the sudden and near-instant coloration of rage. He lunges, landing another strike with his claws, slicing across Manlee's face.

For his effort, he gets a swift steel toe to the stomach. His breath is ejected from his lungs, and he rolls over, gasping.

Another kick, this time to his ribs. Experience tells him they're bruised, but not broken.

“Dude, what the literal fuck!? I'm just trying to be nice! I was offering to let you in with my agent!” Manlee sputters, hauling Karkat to his feet by his collar. “All you fucking younger actors are like this, huh?” A punch to the head. “You all think you're such hot stuff, so much better than us, the people who've crawled out of two-bit role hell to get here, right? You're here by sheer luck!” A fist to the stomach, and four claws raked across the face. The wounds are shallow, and they don't hurt now; they'll sting, later. “Maybe what I should've done was knock you down a few pegs!” An arm reels back, preparing for a punch, only to suddenly freeze. Without warning, Manlee drops Karkat to the ground. He stumbles back.

“What the actual shit is happening!?” Dave, framed against the light of his office, looks upon the scene. “Well!?” There's something comforting, almost protective, about the way his shoulders are squared. His voice is filled with an intense, almost frightening rage. Somehow, Karkat knows it's not directed at him. “You want to tell me, or are you just gonna’ stand there, gaping at me like the hulking idiot you are, Manlee!?”

“Why are you yelling at me!?” stammers the normally well-composed senior actor. He holds his hands up, in the universal declaration of surrender. Bright red blood drips from his black claws. “The ingrate wriggler started it!”

“You want to think about who you're talking to?” Dave responds. His voice is loud, commanding, and demanding of respect. “You seem to think that you're better than everyone else here, that your fuckin’ experience gets you out of anything. ‘M I right?”

Manlee, looking, now, to have adopted a timid stance, attempts to respond.

Dave interjects. “I'm not looking for an answer, dumbass. You can treat me like trash all you want, but I'm not letting you step on the rest of the crew. They're people, Morris, not stepping stones for your fuckin’ career. I don't give a damn what the budget department or sponsors say. You're done. Turn right on around and get the hell out of my studio.”

“What for!?” The confidence has returned to the troll. He cracks his shoulders and straightens his back, so that he towers above Dave. As if it will help his case, he pops his knuckles. “I didn't start this! Karkat hit me first!”

An audible groan escapes Dave. He propels himself forward, slams into Manlee, and grabs his wrist. He wrenches it, such that the arm acts as a fulcrum, around which the rest of Manlee pivots. There's a loud  _thud_. When Manlee hits the floor, Dave drops forward, slamming his fist down, and pinning the other man to the ground. Reflected against mirrored black lenses is a look of nothing short of fear. Undeterred, Dave continues, “Not as helpless as I look, huh?” When he receives no response, Dave repeats himself, louder, now, “ANSWER ME!”

The reply comes in ragged gasps. “Ow! Fuck! No!” Manlee squirms, but he's unable to break free. Dave's digging into his ribs, hindering his breathing. He lifts the other hand only briefly, sometimes adjusting his position to get the best angle.

“You're too loud for your own good, Morris. I could hear you in my office. You don't think that shit-talking the director counts against you? I've heard you, and I'm sick of fuckin’ hearing you.”

Manlee manages to free his other hand from beneath him. He lashes out, and his claws easily rip through the fabric of Dave's pants.

The man shows no reaction, even as blood begins to leak from the wound. “I'll give you twenty minutes. Pack your things, and get the fuck out of my studio.” Malice has soaked into Dave's voice, now, seeming to encompass and radiate from his very being. There's something malevolent in his words, and, in his voice, ample venom to back his promises. It's a side Karkat has never seen before, one that wrenches at his heart. It reminds him too much of the people he grew up around, of the unspoken capability children can have for simple meanness. “You disgust me, Morris. I never want to see you around here again.” He releases his hold.

In his scramble to leave, Manlee swiftly straightens.

The action sends Dave off balance, tipping him backwards, so that he spills onto the floor. A soft groan is follow by the rattling of metal, and the soft percussion of him resettling in his place. In his blurred vision, Karkat sees the familiar red tennis shoes before him. He hears a voice, suddenly and unnervingly calm after all of this. “Hey. Karkat? You okay?”

“You... What... What the fuck was that!?” Karkat sputters. Now, he feels the stinging wounds on his face. He winces. When Dave reaches forward to help, he pulls back. “Jesus Christ, Strider, —” Dave visibly flinches at the name, “—you're... You're as much a bully as he is!”

“He was beating the shit out of you,” Dave counters. There's an edge to his voice, but, unlike before, it's more downtrodden. His shades are askew, and, in the little bit Karkat can see, his eyes seem to be glistening with desperation. “I... What did you want me to do? Watch him grind you to a meaty fuckin’ pulp? He's been a thorn in my side since filming began. Now, he's gone. What's the problem!?”

Pause.

Think.

Karkat takes a deep breath. “Let me. Fuck. Give me a goddamned minute, okay?”

“Okay.”

He's being hasty. Karkat knows this, now. He recognizes this. Had he acted on his instincts, and not taken a card from Rose's psychoanalysis book, he'd probably be biting Dave's head off, now. But, in the few seconds he has to clear his mind, he realizes that what he's reacting to is more personal. It's a sense of displacement, an unpleasantly familiar feeling of never belonging. That said, he still sees it—the signs of a bully, of a person who, at one point or another, took pride in dominating, in asserting some form of twisted control over others.

He can't just let the issue drop. This time, when Dave hesitantly reaches forward, handkerchief in hand, he lets the man begin to clean his wounds. “You... Who were you, really? Before the accident?”

Dave pauses. He withdraws his contact, only briefly, to nervously readjust his position. He ignores his own wounded leg, opting, instead, to tend to Karkat. “I was... Uh... I was a huge douche, really. I think... Uh...” He's nervous, and it's obvious. His hand shakes slightly, and he chews his lip constantly between words. Speaking isn't coming naturally to him. Usually flowing, almost poetic speech has turns to strangled, almost disconnected uttering. His tone is less even, pushing towards a total lack of one. “I was... I  _was_ a... What was the word you used?” he looks away. “I'm... I'm sorry. I can't... Uh...”

“A bully,” Karkat clarifies. He's neither harsh nor gentle in his statement. This is an assertion, but it's one meant to bring him closer to understanding Dave. Or, at least, that's what he hopes.

“Yeah. That. Uh.” Dave licks his lips. (It occurs to Karkat that there's a split down the middle of his upper lip.) From his bag, he pulls some disinfectant. He smears it onto the cloth and presses it to the wounds on Karkat's face, slowly running down them. There's familiarity in his movements. He's provided first aid before; he knows how to heal wounds on his own. “I wasn't really a happy guy, to be honest. I can't think I remember ever being real happy since I was, maybe, twelve? I... Uh... I'm sorry. I... God. Fuckin’ shit. I'm not in the right... I'm too nervous for this, now. All my words are just kind of... They've scrambled, fighter jet style, and fuck if I know where they went. The point is that I'm different, now. You don't got to believe that, and I totes understand if you don't, ‘specially after seeing what I just did, but...”

Karkat finds himself silent. He can't bring himself to stay mad at Dave; after all, if anything, he helped. What he's really upset about is the implication that, at some point, had they met earlier, Dave would have been a person he'd truly despise. It's a realization that shakes him. And, for what reason, he isn't sure.

“Look, my point is that... Uh... I do think that, as shitty as it was at the time, and for all the damned... uh... the bullshit it causes, now, and will for the rest of forever, up ‘til the moment I drop dead?” Dave's voice rises, as if he's posing a question, not answering one. When he continues, however, there's a firmness in his voice, and that distinct, almost overpowering sense of innate honesty is there again, “I think the accident helped. I think I'm a better person, y'know? It sounds shitty, but you don't really realize what you have ‘til you're just ‘bout to lose it all, and...” His voice breaks. He seems to collapse inwards, burying his face in his free hand. “I'm sorry. I... I fucked up, didn't I?”

The tables turn. Karkat, on instinct, gently holds the wrist of the hand currently dabbing disinfectant on his face. He shushes Dave, pulling him into a tight embrace. “No, you didn't. Actually, I'm just being an ungrateful motherfucker. I should be thanking you for saving my stupid ass.” He keeps his hold on Dave until the man's sobs die down to little more than sniffles. “Why don't we go back into your office? Talk about whatever the fuck, in the name of whatever cloud-dwelling, celestial entity you may prostrate yourself before, just happened?”

Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Dave nods. He seems calmer, now, more relaxed. (Karkat, for all it's worth, has also regained his composure.) “Yeah. Sounds good. I need to text Rose, anyhow. She's been blowing out my phone faster than a Taco Bell marathon eater with diarrhea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i made ms. paint's initials IP. get it? like intellectual property. HAHAHAHAHAH. at least i think i'm funny..... anyhow this was a mammoth chapter. oops. OH SHIT WOW THIS REALLY WAS LONG WOWZA. i'm just gonna... split this up for length reasons holy shit.


	26. Quiet's Theme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it all seems to be ending, where do you begin?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another MGSV song, [here's the link to the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxRdLzCeglo)! the second portion discusses bro, so be warned about abuse and all that.

**10 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios - Rose's Office**  
Day 54 of filming

The talk with Karkat never comes. Instead, Rose summons Dave to her office. He knows what he's in for, but he still goes. It's either his sense of duty or his desire to be over with the whole affair as quickly as possible that's driving him, and he's not entirely sure which is the case. Either way, by the time he arrives, Rose is looking incredibly cross, and he braces himself for impact.

This impact also fails to materialize. Instead, Rose offers a tired sigh. She kneads her knuckles against her forehead. “David, what have you done? _What the fuck have you done?_ ” In a way, this is almost worse than the nuclear detonation he'd been expecting. Her expression is tired, as is her normally infallible upright demeanor. “My God, Dave, you just condemned the studio to crucifixion. I understand why you did it. Truly, I do, but we can't afford to remake this entire film, and no one can stand in for Manlee.”

“Yeah,” Dave mumbles, “I know.”

“I've consulted with Dirk. He stated, in no uncertain terms, that there are only two real choices for the future of this film. The most feasible is to simply cease all production work. We will scrap  _Study in Monochrome_ , and recoup the losses. The other option, which is what I am wholeheartedly assured you will be taking, being the most noble and artistic one, is that we continue our work, and push back the release date. We can either completely rewrite the script, accommodating for the firing of that pompous idiot, or we can re-shoot what might just be a majority of what we've done. We'll have to relocate much of the film, being that we no longer have a sufficient budget to return to Derse.”

“Okay.” Anxiety reverts Dave to a state of primal simplicity. He answers in only as many words as he must. “Second option.”

“I see.” Another sigh. Rose leans back in her high-backed executive chair. She covers her face with her hands, and lets forth a loud, muffled groan. “Dave, I do care for you, but you have quite the knack for destroying what you hold most dear. Do you believe this film will be worth it?”

“Yes.” The assertion is based on his trust in Karkat's abilities, in those of his staff. He knows the talent that everyone is capable of, and he knows the caliber of work that can come from it.

“Who will replace Manlee's character?”

Without second thought, Dave answers, “I will.”

“You haven't acted in almost a decade!” Rose exclaims. “Not to be presumptuous, but to do exactly what I have just claimed I would not, aren't you a bit rusty?”

“I can work with that.”

There's a look of apprehension on Rose's face, which slowly shifts to one of both pride and fear. “Well, then, Dave,” she says, extending her hand across the desk, “Consider yourself hired as a star in your own film. Would you like to announce the departure of Manlee, or shall I do the honors?”

“You do it,” says Dave, gesturing vaguely towards his sister, “I feel a migraine coming on.”

“Understandable. I'll turn the lights off when I leave.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

**14 February 2020**  
**Kanaya Maryam's Home**  
2012 Bottle Street  
Dunwall County

On the tenth, it was announced that filming was going to be put on hold for two weeks, during which time the script was going to be reworked. Everyone was dismissed, but promised their prior positions upon the resumption of all work on the film. It was a deal that, to Dave's surprise, all but a few members of the crew took. Manlee's cronies left, but those left behind were loyal.

Since then, Karkat hasn't seen or heard from his boyfriend. It isn't until the Friday after the scrapping of the film's first seven weeks of filming that he's finally able to meet with him. He's directed to Kanaya's home, a quaint, retrofitted townhouse just outside of Skaia City proper. The exterior is painted a creamy white, with pastel green accents around the windows and a matching colored door. Through carefully cleaned windows, an open-concept living space is visible on the first floor, and a splendidly decorated hallway on the upper level. There's a single step before the door, and Karkat has been informed that both Rose and Kanaya have voluntarily gone out for dinner, giving him some alone time with Dave.

Before he knocks, Karkat studies his reflection in the glass of the front door. He straightens his tie and tries to smooth down his hair. He checks over the box of luxury candies he'd picked out, paid for using money Rose had gifted him for the express purpose of “impressing my burnt-out idiot of a brother”. He ensures that none of the pricey confections have been damaged during the ride, then knocks.

When the door opens, it's obvious that Dave wasn't aware that this was a formal affair. Or, perhaps, Karkat simply overdressed. The man is clad in a pull-on hoodie and some old, torn jeans. Instead of shoes, he's wearing a pair of ratty red slippers. Dark shadows hang beneath tired eyes, exposed by the clear lenses of his regular glasses, and his greeting is spoken after a loud yawn. “Shit. You look nice. And I look like a sewer-squatting bum, don't I? Kind of feels bad, man.”

Karkat, eager to step inside, out of the cold, shoves the box of chocolates into Dave's lap. “Move over, I'm freezing my bulge off out here.” He skitters into the warmth of the building, then unwinds his scarf. Along with his jacket, this is hung on the coat rack by the door. “You look like you haven't slept in a fucking year, Dave. What're you doing?”

“Just that,” the man grumbles. He backs up, taking a mug of coffee from a nearby console table. After a large gulp, he continues, cradling the steaming beverage in his hands, “It's... Uh... Nice seein’ you. Sorry I had to fire you for a few weeks.”

“No problem. I've got enough to last until then.” Karkat shrugs. He looks around, to the rather traditional furniture, and chooses to settle himself into a plush-looking armchair. He notes that it's Kanaya's favorite color, jade green, and considers that he might have seated his ass right into his best friend's personal chair. “Sorry I made you fire Manlee, even if he was a raging bastardknob.”

Dave smiles. It's a gentle expression, not overly exuberant. “I was going to get rid of him, anyhow. He just gnawed on my goddamned nerves. Anyhow, if you need any cash, let me know. I always have some set aside for emergencies. I've got more than enough to keep you going until filming picks back up.” He pauses to inspect the candies in his lap, and he eagerly picks one out. Judging by the criss-crossing pattern on top, it's one of the cinnamon apple truffles. “You went to Chocolate Paradise?” When he bites into the candy, his face relaxes into a look of pure bliss. “Aw, fuck. I know Rose probably sent you, but I can't be pissed at anyone who brings me ambrosia from the heavens. Slap me across the face with a fuckin’ fish, this shit is good.”

“Yeah, I figured you'd like it. Rose might be an enigmatic woman, but I have to believe she wouldn't send me with food you'd hate. So...”

“So?” parrots Dave.

“Are we going to discuss whatever the fuck happened with Manlee, or are you going to turtle shell back into your own personal realm of damnation?”

Dave pops another chocolate into his mouth. He chews slowly, as if to give himself more time to think about what he wants to say. Only after he's finished does he speak. One hand places the box of chocolates on the table, and another takes up a book. He passes it to Karkat, nodding, “Page forty-three.”

First Karkat takes a moment to study the book. The pages are bound in a shit brown sleeve, with white text, declaring “Skaia Slimers”. The words circle around an unassuming and almost cute mascot, a sort of bastardization of the namesake Ghostbusters entity. Then, following instructions, Karkat flips through the glossy pages. He finds himself gazing at something that he can't quite parse—a photo of Dave Strider, circa ninth grade. It's about equal parts hilarious, distressing, and surreal. In some ways, he looks the same—light hair, shades, and an enigmatic expression. In others, he looks different. There's a definite sense of cockiness to him, perhaps expressed by his posturing, with his arms across his chest. He wears a sleeveless white top. He's tried to cover them, but poor concealer work allows spotty bruises to shine through.

“God,” Dave grimaces, glancing at his own photo, “I was a real tool, huh?”

“You look like an even bigger one than you do now, and that's fucking saying something,” whistles Karkat.

Dave sighs. He rubs the back of his neck, then begins to pick stray material from the Velcro on his gloves. “What did you want to know, then? I know you ain't too happy with how I acted with Manlee, and I guess I understand it, now. I've never had a real knack for actually talkin’ shit through. If something makes me pissed enough, I tend to just use my fists. I'm workin’ on it. I've  _been_ workin’ on it, for a while, now.”

Karkat pauses.

He considers the situation. Now, outside of the immediate emotions and hesitation, he finds himself unable to truly articulate his thoughts. After a few minutes of tense silence, however, he speaks up. “How do I know you wouldn't do the same to me? If I, for some reason, just pestered the living shit of you, until you couldn't handle it, how do I know you wouldn't just ragdoll me around?”

Dave refuses to meet Karkat's gaze, but he still removes his shades. “It's...” He pauses. Thinks. “Really? I guess that's just trust. I'm still... I've got _so much_ bullshit to unlearn, and all these other things I need to learn. I really do think I've mellowed out over the years. I've gotten ‘way from what I  _was_ , but I'm still kind of... It's complicated. It takes a hell of a lot of effort to open your eyes and go, ‘Oh, fuck, man. Everything I've ever been told is a massive, steaming lie.’”

“Okay.” Now, Karkat begins fidgeting. He kneads the nearby throw pillow between his fingers, taking great care to avoid tearing the fabric with his claws. In the back of his head, he wishes that he could fully retract them. “I guess I'll just trust you to hold yourself to that, Dave. Did you ever—?”

“No.” The reply is firm, immediate, and honest. This time, Dave meets his boyfriend's gaze. “I've never once laid so much as a single finger on someone I really give a damn about. Bro is different. He'd always hit first.”

“Oh.” Karkat frowns. “Rose says you have some fucking awful memories of him. Is there... Can I help, somehow? I mean... I know I'm a useless sack of shit when it comes to that sort of stuff, but I'm going to go out on one of my four appendages and assume that you're even worse than I am in that category.”

“You're an emotional  _saint_ compared to me, Karkat,” Dave announces. There's a smile on his face, but it's fleeting. “Uh... I don't really know.” With his hands folded behind his head, Dave lets his body relax. His slouch becomes more pronounced, as he leans back, deeper into his chair. His eyes are locked on the ceiling, seeming to focus on nothing in particular. “Lots of things remind me of him. The sound of metal hitting metal, people calling me by my last name, baseball caps, black tennis shoes. Avoidin’ any mention of that bastard would be about as doable as playing Skip-It—trademark included, of course—with the goddamned moon. It just won't happen. I avoid what I can, and deal with what I can't.”

Unable to think of anything worthwhile to say, Karkat nods. He listens.

“You ever just look up, at the sky, and see how many fuckin’ stars there are? And you kind of realize that you're just a tiny part of some sort of great cosmic festival of bullshit, waiting ‘til you finally kick it back up and split for the last time?” Dave isn't even bothering to glance at Karkat, now. He's lost in his own thoughts, verbalizing them with an odd sort of fluidity. His voice is rhythmic, like a song. “Fuck if I know or could know what all of it means, and maybe it's all useless pipe dreams.” He shakes his head, ruffling his hair in the process, before prying open the chocolate box again. He hums to himself, taking a few seconds to choose the perfect candy. Then, he continues, the rhythm now gone, “It's nice of you to ask, though.”

“I know you have problems with driving, and that wasn't exactly the most pleasant thing to witness, so I want to spare both of us the assache of that sort of thing.” Karkat shrugs. In his mind, it's what any decent friend would do. “Did you ever consider dating after the accident?” Out of a need for something else to talk about, Karkat changes the subject. He knows he can't just abruptly shift the mood, so he works his way out of the hole, bit by bit.

“Hm?” Dave seems taken aback by the shift, but he quickly adjusts. “Oh. Really? A few times. I tried, but it never worked out. People would meet up with me, realize what, exactly, they were gettin’ into, and run off. I can't really blame them. It's not exactly easy dealing with everything that happens to make me.” His tone shifts, now edging the line of playful. “I'm a  _complicated person_ , Karkat. I have  _deep emotional needs_ and insane, intricate mental machinations.”

The troll can't help but laugh. “I mean, I guess you're right? In the loosest, most bastardized sense of the word, you're technically telling the truth.”

“So, I guess we're moving to lighter pastures? We've left behind that fuckin’ wasteland, and we're just going to chum it up about something else?”

“Why not?” Karkat shrugs. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“You might as well be family at this point, dude. Just dig through the fridge yourself. I don't give a fuck.” Dave smirks.

The air of gloom lifts, giving way to a sense of lighthearted closeness. The two men bask in the warmth of each other's presence, not necessarily needing to constantly speak to feel comfortable. It's a mutually pleasant experience, one that they both find themselves unwilling to put to an end.

* * *

**14 February 2020**  
**Squiddley Squall Sushi**  
10 Rockefeller Plaza  
Skaia City

“How did you know that I enjoy sushi?” inquires Kanaya. Her attentions are split between the bright and colorful decorations of the restaurant and her date. The peculiar lights grab her interests. They're shaped like adorable cartoon sea creatures of some sort, with four wiggly little noodle legs. One is set over each booth. In the quirky culture of the establishment, they're referred to as “squiddles”, and the name of each is carved into the table it hovers over. Accordingly, they are seated beneath a bright, pastel pink one, by the name of Bandensis.

Upon noticing this, Rose speaks up. “It seems they have named this lighting fixture after a variety of cuttlefish,” she smiles. It's a soft expression, one that melts Kanaya's heart, and one she finds herself mirroring.

“Really? How did you know this?” the trolls asks, impressed.

Rose responds with a wink. “I would say that I am simply that intellectually gifted, but that would be a lie. I Googled the name while you weren't looking. I adore these little creatures, though, they're almost insipidly cute. You just see them, and are immediately overcome with a deep desire to squeeze them tightly.”

“Dear Gog, yes,” Kanaya nods. She stirs her bowl of noodles, which she's been nibbling at for the past ten minutes. In all honesty, she's not sure why she ordered these; she's no big fan of them.

And, perhaps, Rose senses this; maybe, with her knack for psychology, she simply knows this, based on subtle cues. She slides her dish—mildly spicy shrimp tempura—across the table, waggling her brows in a way that's at once seductive and hilarious. “Would you, perhaps, be interested in sharing my dish? It's much larger than I expected, and it seems that you dislike yours.”

“In fact, I do dislike egg noodles,” Kanaya admits, embarrassed by her oversight.

“Well, I love them!” exclaims Rose. She reaches out, eagerly taking her girlfriend's dinner. “Let's trade.”

“This is not a disagreeable arrangement.” Kanaya laughs, and she wonders how she ever managed to get caught in the web of such a perfect woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're wondering what kanaya's house looks like, think something like [this, but with different colors](https://www.123rf.com/photo_86192094_isolated-victorian-townhouse-in-a-usa-city.html). thanks again, stock photos! there's a real world easter egg in the location of the third section, btw. ;)


	27. Exo-Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some alone time, and words of caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's the standard link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qi0XGqFt3Es), and it's by muse. 100 kudos? fuckin WILD.

**17 February 2020**  
**Kanaya Maryam's Home**  
2012 Bottle Street  
Dunwall County

It's a cold, rainy day, not exactly the best for a surprise visit to his boyfriend's temporary residence, but Karkat has his heart stubbornly set on it.

After clearing with Rose that he wasn't interrupting any important business, the plan was outlined. He spent the morning getting ready, mostly taking the steps to make himself look presentable. He opts for a more casual wardrobe, wearing a sweatshirt he somehow acquired from Dave. (It's vibrant red, with the StriLonde Studios logo emblazoned on the front in metallic silver. The hood's drawstring is missing, as it had been when he received it; according to Dave, it was white.) On his way to the house, he drops by the gift store, a sort of Hallmark-but-not-Hallmark place. He purchases the dumbest thing he can find, something he'll know Dave will laugh at. It just so happens to be a large plush crab, with the words “pincher of my heart” emblazoned on the back. (He also picks up a bag of Skittles, but he ends up eating these while stuck in a traffic jam. It's the thought that counts, he supposes.)

He arrives at 1:20 or so, give or take a handful of minutes. He rings the bell, and is ultimately greeted by Rose.

“Ah. Karkat.” The woman smiles. It's a welcoming expression, one that's almost eerily similar to Dave's. Thin-lipped, reserved, and composed. “My deepest apologies. Dave just went out. He's been taking walks around the neighborhood. I don't understand why, either, especially not in this abhorrent weather, but he insisted. He'll return in about an hour.”

A long sigh escapes the troll. His heart drops. All of this effort, and Dave isn't even home? A low, chittering growl escapes his throat, but he still steps inside. Anything to escape the cold, wet weather. “I can't believe it. I'm dating an incurable idiot.”

“And you have just taken notice of this fact?” tuts Rose. She gestures for him to follow, and sits on the sofa, before the crackling wood fire. “Kanaya is also out. She has gone to fetch the groceries, and I volunteered to tend to the home. I'm also in the process of watering her various potted flora. So, it seems this is the ideal time for me to talk to you.” Now, there's something oddly ominous about her smile. It hasn't changed in the slightest, but Karkat is, nonetheless, filled with dread.

He swallows, then trudges to the sofa, sitting beside the woman. He keeps his eyes locked ahead, finding that his attitude towards Rose is similar to how he views Kanaya. She's a good and loyal friend, but she's not someone that anybody should ever try and cross the wrong way. “What sort of shit did you want to discuss, Lalonde?” he asks. He licks his lips, finding that they're suddenly dry.

“Ah, well, first of all, I advise that you avoid any sexual contact with my brother for the time being.” She's upfront and to the point, not that Karkat would've expected otherwise. “His recent leg injury has compromised his nervous system. I don't exactly want to take my brother to the hospital again, for the second time this week. The first time was unpleasant enough.” She eyes her conversational partner over, immediately catching onto the way the troll tenses. “Am I free to assume that Dave failed to disclose that information to you?” Rose rolls her eyes. “I expected as much. He wouldn't want to worry you.”

“When the fuck did he go to the hospital?” Karkat says this as if he's been in constant contact with Dave, but he has to admit that most of the past few days have been marked by radio silence from him. “For what!?”

“I can see your anxiety skyrocketing, and I am now cognizant of exactly  _why_ my brother failed to mention his hospitalization to you. First of all, calm down. He's fine. It was just a bout of a common health problem. Would you rather I use the technical term for it, or would you prefer a more palatable reference point?”

Karkat can practically feel his mind short-circuiting. Loquacity is a family trait, it seems. “Uh... Fucking... Just say what it is.”

“Very well. My idiotic brother managed to ignore an episode of autonomic dysreflexia, resulting in a minor seizure. We took him to the hospital as a precaution, and were advised to, for the time being, minimize any contact below his injury, at least until the wound on his leg heals.”

It takes Karkat a moment to parse the message, and understanding is immediately accompanied by guilt. “Fuck. Sorry. That was my fault.”

“Dave is the one who chose to fight Manlee,” Rose shrugs. “That said, what I really wanted to speak to you about is something entirely different. It's more of a statement than a discussion, though.”

Karkat nods.

Rose responds with a serious expression. “Though it may not seem like it, I truly do care for my brother and his inexplicably strange perception of what most people understand to be natural emotions. He has already been through enough in his life, and, should you add yourself as another strike on the board of his lifetime woes, I will not hesitate to retaliate.” She leans in, a bit closer, almost whispering the next statement, “If you, in any way, hurt Dave, I  _will_ ensure that you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

Karkat opens his mouth, but no words come out. What is he supposed to say to such a comment? He closes his mouth, blinks, and nods.

In return, a bright smile crosses Rose's face. She acts as if she hadn't just threatened Karkat, mere seconds ago, and claps him on the back. “Wonderful gift, by the way. Dave is going eat up how ironic it is. I'll leave you alone, now.” She rises and departs. It's so swift that Karkat doesn't really have any time to process her exit, nor does he have ample opportunity to respond to it.

 

Somehow, Karkat ends up napping on Kanaya's sofa. According to his phone, he wakes at roughly 2:30. The sound of the front door closing is the impetus, and the cause of the sound just so happens to be Kanaya. Three reusable fabric bags, which hang from her arms, are filled with groceries, and a warm smile appears when she recognizes her friend. “Oh, Karkat! Rose said you would be dropping by today. It makes me happy to see that you like my sofa so much, but I ask that you not make sleeping there a habit. I have a bed available, and you are most likely welcome to sleep in Dave's bed.” She sets aside the freshly purchased produce, spreading it out on the kitchen island's counter, and putting it away from there. “I see that you're looking worried. I saw Dave, he's on his way back. I offered to let him ride in my car for the rest of his walk, but he insisted he finish.”

As if on cue, the door opens. Dave, dripping wet, and with hands covered in mud, enters the home.

Kanaya reacts immediately. “Oh. No. No! No! No! No!” She scrambles, gracelessly, to a small closet, from which she pulls a large towel. Rushing back to Dave, she hands it over. “You will  _not_ dirty these floors! I just had them restained a few weeks ago! No! Terrible!” Simultaneously, both she and Karkat look down; they both notice the smears of mud behind him. “Oh. Damn. Shit. _Dave_!”

“Sorry.” The man towels himself off, beginning with hair that, to Karkat's surprise, seems to almost be golden blond when wet. At the same time, he looks to the male troll, and his usual mask of indifference shatters, revealing a smile bright enough to replace the sun. “Oh. Karkat. Hey. Welcome to the domestic lives of the Strider-Lalonde family.”

“Please, Dave, I'm  _begging_ you to stop bringing in so much dirt.” Kanaya buries her face in her hands, knocking an apple off the counter in the process. “My beautiful floor...”

“Sorry, Kan,” Dave frowns. He hangs the towel around his neck, then cards his fingers through still-wet hair. He dries off his shades, swiftly replacing them afterwards. “Uh... Really. I am sorry. I didn't mean to drag in all this shit, but, really, you should blame the city. Have you  _seen_ the sidewalks around here? I think it sure does say a lot when it's easier for me to drag my ass through diarrhea-consistency mud than it is for me to use the sidewalk, the very surface designated solely for goddamned walkin’.”

“Oh, yes, I'll be sure to sue the County of Dunwall for being so very inconsiderate.” Kanaya remains unmoved by Dave's apologies. She flashes a desperate look to Karkat, but receives little more than a shrug for her efforts. After a few more seconds of mourning her once spotless wooden floors, she distracts herself with the groceries.

Dave, meanwhile, continues to push his point. “Look, it's a literal pain in my ass to try and use the sidewalks. I don't know what it takes to get sidewalks fixed. Usually, it's mentioning that  _babies_ are also mighty inconvenienced by shitty city maintenance. I mean, shit, god forbid we make them babies unhappy. The tiny human flesh sacks are going to raise hell, but screw people like me, right? I can just go break my fuckin’ leg.” He peels off thoroughly soaked gloves, and puts them into a plastic bag, which he retrieves from the pack on the back of his chair. “Would it... uh... You'd really just prefer for me to disappear for a while, huh?”

“Yes, please,” Kanaya mumbles.

“As ya’ wish.” The words blend together, becoming one flowing phrase. Dave offers a two-finger salute, and beckons for Karkat to follow him.

Karkat follows.

Dave's room—or, rather, the guest room—is located at the back of the house. The door to enter is to the left of a set of bookcases, which line the wall of the living room. It's relatively small, with little space for Dave to properly move. He propels himself in various innovative ways, pushing off of anything he can put his hands on—furniture, walls, and the bed, itself, serve as points of movement. The glass-covered top of a dark oak dresser is cluttered with bottles of pills and medical supplies, all stacked on top of film notes.

“Are you actually comfortable in here?” Karkat asks.

Dave shrugs. He peels off his wet shirt, and throws it through the open bathroom door. “I should shower before we actually hang out. You mind? I'm covered in shit from the ground, and I need to put new bandages on my leg.” As if to clarify, Dave tugs at the sopping fabric of his sweatpants, revealing a length of gauze around his shin, where Manlee had sliced into him. When he drops it, he checks his watch, tapping at it a few times, then grabbing a bottle of pills from his pocket. He downs one, using a nearby half-filled glass of water, then tosses the bottle onto the bed. (Water has smudged most of the carefully printed information on the label, but the words “regulate blood pressure” are still legible.)

“That didn't answer my fucking question,” comments Karkat.

Another shrug. “I don't know where else I'd go,” admits Dave. “I can't live at your place. Being trapped until someone finally bothers to get off their ass and hand me the elevator key is a verified nightmare scenario for me. I mean... This ain't ideal, but it's all I've got.” He rubs the towel through his hair again, though it seems to make little difference. “I'm going to get into the shower. If you want, I'll let you in after I'm settled. We can talk.”

The offer is tempting enough for the troll to accept it.

For a few minutes, Karkat idles in the bedroom. He listens to the sounds from the bathroom, the rattling of Dave's chair, and the hollow plodding of plastic moving around. He looks around, eyeing the various medicines and collected medical supplies atop the dresser. He understands none of them, being that he's biologically different from Dave, but he recognizes some things. From the clutter of plastic and tubing, he notes the presence of a blood pressure monitor, wrist splints, and bandages.

The water begins running, and the sound draws Karkat from his studies.

“You can come in, now.”

Karkat quietly enters the bathroom. He'd taken off his shoes upon entering Kanaya's home, and he's borrowed Dave's slippers to avoid tearing up the tile with the claws on his feet. (Like toenails, the claws on his feet aren't quite as long or pointed, but they'd easily scratch tile.)

Dave is hidden behind a light pink paisley curtain, and his wheelchair is parked next to the shower. “Just sit in my chair. I don't give a shit.”

Karkat complies. He settles into the wheelchair, rolling around with his feet for a few seconds, before speaking up. “Hey, so, why the literal fuck didn't you tell me you went to the hospital?”

“Oh.” Just by his voice, Karkat knows Dave is shrugging. It's something inexplicable about his tone, a lilt, that indicates as much. “Rose told’ja? It ain't anything to worry about, I promise. Happens sometimes. I haven't been really taking great care of myself for the past few years.” There's a pause, followed by a nervous laugh. “Honestly? You're the one who pushed me to do better. That's why I've been going around the neighborhood lately. Good exercise. Keeps me from gaining too much weight. I mean, my heart's already strained enough, it don't need too much more being asked from it.”

“I'm almost afraid of how casual you are about all this. You could just drop dead any minute, and you're just...? God. What the bulge-chafing shit, Dave?” Karkat trails off, unable to find the right words to express himself.

Dave, in contrast, speaks easily and from the heart. There's something strangely vulnerable about his voice, now, a wavering tone, one Karkat has never heard from Dave. He's quiet. “If I was afraid of everything that could go wrong, I'd be dead as fuck by now. Hundred years ago, I'd have died in the damn car. Hell, statistically, I should've still died in the car. I... Uh... Damn. This is some fuckin’ heavy shower talk.”

“It's important to me,” Karkat pleads, feeling the topic slipping away, “Dave, please. If we're going to actually be together, I'd really like to know what to do if you suddenly flatlined in front of me. It would be really goddamned baroque of you to just talk to me, one-on-one, about this.”

A stretch of pained silence spans several minutes, and only ends when Dave turns off the water. “Give me a minute. Go back out to the bedroom, let me get dressed, and I'll be right out.”

An exasperated sigh escapes Karkat. He musses his hair and exits the bathroom. Once outside, he spends the next few minutes awkwardly pacing back and forth in front of the bed, stopping only once Dave comes out.

The man is dressed in one of his trademark baseball shirts—white, with red sleeves—and a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants. Their bagginess only highlights how thin his legs are, with the thick, heavy fabric managing to drape over them like a tablecloth. There's a look of worry on his face when he speaks, and a pointed anxiety in his voice, “Look, I get it. You're like John, right? You're always going to worry ‘bout me, and I'm actually mighty flattered that you'd be, but... If you want this to work, you've got to sign the contract, too. I've wrestled that goddamned bull-named-mortality, and you've got to, too.”

Karkat plods over to Dave, and sits on the bed, so that he's eye-to-eye with the man. It's a somewhat pointless gesture, as he can't really see into Dave's eyes with his shades on, but it's comforting to him. “I just... What should I look out for? I'm not a fucking human. You understand that, right? Troll anatomy and human anatomy are two entirely different things, completely independent of one another. We share similarly bipedal locomotive styles, and vaguely analogous facial structures, but everything else? All that shit you talk about, about your vertebral column, I don't get it. And I'd really _like_ to, but _you_ , in all your fucking stubborn glory, don't seem to want me to.” Words tumble from Karkat's mouth, flowing from every pent-up frustration he's ever had with Dave. They're problems even he hadn't acknowledged, at least until now. They're things he's always wanted to say.

And, to his surprise, Dave laughs. It's a soft sound. An affectionate sound. He wheels forward, puts a hand on Karkat's shoulder, and shakes his head. “God. You're fuckin’ amazing, Karkat. Look, it'd take forever for you to learn about everything that's wrong with me, and that's just speakin’ to all the physical shit. Whatever the hell's been scrambled in my goddamned head is another session, and I don't think even  _I_ will ever understand that.”

“I'll wait forever to hear it, then,” insists Karkat. “Dammit, Dave, stop being such an enigmatic sack of a wriggler.”

The sly smile on the man's face fades. He removes his shades, and, for once, he doesn't bother putting on his other glasses, nor does he put the sunglasses back on. For what might just be the first time since meeting him, Karkat gets a full view of Dave's face, unobstructed. In the low light, his irises are a light hazel. “God, I'm not sure if I should admire your dedication or fear it. Where would I even start?”

“Why are your eyes sometimes red?” Karkat asks.

“Albinism. I got more of the pigment variety than the eyes, but my vision's still kind of shit. Right now? I can't really see anything that's more than a foot or two away from my face. Hold up as many fingers as you want. I won't know.” Pale hands rub against a face that is suddenly weighted down by weariness. “My brother thought it was a sort of curse, an omen, I guess. Never understood that.” He turns, pulling his body around by throwing an arm over the back of his chair, and takes his wallet from his bag. From the depths of the plain leather cache, he pries a crumpled note.

Karkat takes it into his hands carefully and unfolds it. The words, penned in Rose's flowing cursive, carefully record all of the emergency medications in Dave's pack. Each is noted alongside what scenario would justify giving it to Dave. It makes little sense to him, but he skims it. “Baclofen - As needed for spasms.” Absolute nonsense. “Nifedipine - A.D., Clammy skin, sweating, anxiety.” He doesn't understand it, and that gnaws at his gut. He hands the note back.

“I know trolls are tougher than humans, overall. More resilient and all that shit. But us? Humans? We're not built to take as much abuse. A human ain't meant to survive having a quarter of their spine blown to shit, right? I mean...” He leans forward, supporting the weight of his upper body against his forearms. He tugs at his shirt, revealing his spine, and there's an impossibly straight section near the middle. Its shape doesn't match the rest. A ragged scar runs along it, evidence of an invasive surgery. When he's sure Karkat has seen, he quickly sits upright, tugging his shirt back into place. “Look, if you're just going to fall apart every time some little shit thing happens, it just won't work.”

“Are you saying I'm not entitled to worry about my own fucking boyfriend!?” scoffs Karkat.

“You are, but, for the love of fuckin’ God, relax.” Dave breathes in. It's a deep, hoarse breath, followed by a heavy sigh. “Look, I get it. I guess I do, at least. Shit's happened, and I'm obviously not... Uh... To be completely real, there's already, what, a difference of ten to twenty years between the lifespans of trolls and humans, right? Well, add onto that. Everything I've gone through? If, somehow, we end up together—and don't take this as me sayin’ I don't want that, because it sounds damned fine to me right now—you can expect to live maybe thirty years without me. And, hey, maybe we'll have all died by then. Maybe technology'd have caught up with all this, and I'll be fine. I don't fuckin’ know, but you can't spend your entire time with me worrying about me. If nothin’ else, Rose does enough of that for you.”

Another tense pause.

Dave tugs at the fabric of his pants. “Relationships aren't... I'm not... Uh... I'm not the best at being a good boyfriend or whatever. I know that. I'm sorry. Uh... Sorry. Fuck.” His fingers curl around the pushrims of his chair, until his knuckles turn white. “Look, what I'm trying to say is that, if you really don't think you can do this, please just tell me. I'll be totally cool with it, and we'll go back to bein’ friends. I just... I don't think I can get into a relationship right now, ‘less I know for goddamned sure you ain't going to check out the minute I'm real set on it. You understand?”

“Yeah,” Karkat nods. “And I guess I'll just have to get used to shit. I'm not going to end the relationship now, and I don't really see myself doing so in the foreseeable future, so you're stuck with me. Are  _you_ okay with that?”

The formerly sullen look on Dave's face brightens, shifting to a small smile. “Yeah. I think we can wrangle with that.”

Karkat is beginning to mirror the expression when he remembers the gift. “OH. Fucking smooth, Vantas. Dammit. Hold on. I got you something.” He rushes out of the room and retrieves the plush crab from the living room. (To his chagrin, Kanaya has posed it next to two bottles of Hardliner. A note has been stuck between its eyes: “Good Luck With Your Boyfriend.” The handwritten message is slipped into his pocket, and he takes the booze with him.) After a few moments, he reenters Dave's room, bearing the hideous abomination.

Dave practically cackles at the sight. “Fuckin’ shit, Karkat, what hell did you pull that out of!?”

“The ripoff Hallmark store hell,” Karkat counters, plopping the creature onto Dave's bed. He hands over a bottle of Hardliner, and pops the top off with his claw. After doing the same for his own bottle, he proposes a toast. “To a long relationship with the world's most think-pan-numbing idiot.”

“Agreed and seconded,” Dave counters.

The two bottles clink together, and the men decide to sit together on the bed and drink. They swap pointless commentary and watch mindless QVC infomercials, mocking them relentlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i renamed this fucking chapter ten times before i picked exo-politics


	28. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter begins for the film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another muse song, and [here's the link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkB9a_DR-7A)! jesus fuck over 100 kudos now lkndslknadkldslkl thank you ;u;

**24 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios**  
1102 Bayfont Pl.  
Skaia City  
Day 1 of filming

It’s been a week since Karkat has seen Dave. When he arrives on set for the first day of the new round of filming, he’s eager to see him again, and he finds that’s he’s not disappointed.

Dave greets him with a wide grin and an outstretched hand. When he takes the gesture, he’s pulled into a tight hug. “Welcome back to set, dude. We’ve just finished getting everything set up. I’m going to dip out soon to get into costume.”

Karkat blinks. “You’re taking Manlee’s role?”

“Neat, right?” Outwardly, he’s excited, but there are hints of anxiety. His hands rub against his knees. Unlike usual, he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to his positioning. His left leg has fallen out of place, with the foot dragging against the floor.

Out of concern, Karkat kneels down. He fixes Dave’s foot, and absentmindedly straightens out his pants leg for him as well. When he stands back up, he finds the man’s face colored by a blush.

“Thanks. I guess I hadn’t noticed. I’ll need to check if I pulled something or rolled my ankle later.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Your script is in your trailer. Rose and I went out to pick up breakfast for everyone, too, so there’s a nice selection of donuts in the green room. Krispy Kreme, of course, also known as the only valid donuts.”

Karkat can’t help but smile at the commentary. “You know, if you’re supposed to be taking Manlee’s place, we’re going to get a fucking load of new bloopers.”

“I’m aware.” Dave shifts. “Anyhow, I’ll see you on set, okay?” As he passes by, he quickly brushes his hand against Karkat’s. “I need to get ready. It’s been a while since I’ve been in front of a camera.”

 

The final touches for the costume are made, with Kanaya carefully trimming away excess fabric. Several pre-threaded needles are carefully embedded along her sleeve, giving her easy access to swift repairs. “You were truly a challenge to design for, Dave. Congratulations. You have the honor of being the first time I’ve ever had to design around a wheelchair. You also mark the first time I’ve ever wanted to actively light an entire costume set on fire.”

“Good to know that me being a pain in the ass is a universal constant,” Dave smirks. While he doesn’t allow Kanaya to touch him, he’s more than comfortable with Rose helping him. With one hand against his chest, she supports his upper body as he winds the coat around his back, then helps him adjust the cuffs of his pants to be acceptably matched.

“Hm.” Kanaya rubs her chin. She scribbles something down in her notebook. “And it seems I still neglected some design considerations. I’ll see if I can make that easier to put on for you.”

“Nah,” Dave shakes his head and waves his hand, “No. Please. We’re all good. It ain’t no big deal.”

“If you insist. I am going to go and check on Karkat, now.” Kanaya bows, then departs from the trailer.

The minute she leaves, Dave deflates. All his bravado and outward confidence dissipates, and he buries his face in his hands. “Oh, God, fuck. What am I doing?”

“What?” Rose startles. She kneels down, in front of her brother, and speaks to him in a soft, comforting tone. (In the back of her mind, she recognizes that she’s probably one of only three people—John and Karkat included—who could ever get away with this. If anyone else tried, Dave would chew them out for coddling him.) “Hey, now, what’s the problem? You’re not thrilled to be returning to acting?”

“I’m going to look like shit out there,” Dave mumbles. “Is it too late to back out? Hire someone else, someone actually fit for an action role?”

Rose sighs. “Dave, calm down, you’re working yourself into a frenzy.” She rubs his shoulder. “If it helps, I believe in you. Don’t let that inflate your oversized ego. And I know that Karkat believes in you. The media is covering this whole rewrite favorably, and it seems many fans are thrilled with the prospect of your return to the silver screen.”

Dave leans back, and the chair lets forth a low whine under the stress. He breathes deeply, and watches as Rose fixes his bandages.

 

 **24 February 2020**  
**Skaia City**  
Central Hub District  
Day 1 of filming

Once everyone has returned and eaten their fill of donuts, prep work begins. Right now, there are no cameras rolling. It's a simple rehearsal, to be followed by the formal shot. It's not the standard industry practice, but it's how Dave usually operates.

By the time Karkat arrives, he finds Dave beneath the canopy of a shop overhang. He notes that the costume he's wearing might as well have been the same one from before, and he's removed his gloves. He's chewing on something, probably gum, and studying his script. Though he's wearing his plain glasses, his shades are nestled amidst his hair. When Karkat approaches, he jumps. “Fuck. Uh. Hey.”

“Rose said you're being cagey as shit about the shoot,” Karkat comments. He sits down on the sidewalk's curb. It puts him a few inches below Dave's eye level, but it's close enough. “And I'll save you the breath and complain about that for you. Blah blah blah. Why is it that my female hatchmate and my boyfriend feel so fucking concerned about me all the time? Blah blah. Dramatic hemming and hawing. Insertion of vulgar language. Was that a decent enough impression?”

“Lacked emotion,” Dave smirks, but the expression quickly fades. He checks his watch, mumbles under his breath, and folds his arms across his chest. “I guess it's just nerves. I don't know. I haven't been in front of the camera in seven years, dude. It's just not something I'm used to, now. I can give you the whole song and dance, but, to be real short with it? I'm not sure how well I'll do.”

“It's not a live show. We can reshoot,” Karkat shrugs. “Was your flimsy rotating locomotive joint okay?”

“My fuckin’  _what_?” Dave laughs. “What the fuck is with trolls and their names for things?”

“Your ankle.” The clarification is swift, but it's met with a perplexed look. “I fixed your foot this morning, you'd been dragging it around behind you like a stupid, wounded mammal. You mentioned you'd have to check and make sure you didn't shatter it into a million pointless pieces.”

“Ah.” A nod of recognition, followed by a soft cough. “Yeah. It's fine. Rose wrapped it, just to be sure, but it's not fucked up enough to worry about. It happens, sometimes.” He lifts his right leg up and crosses it over his left. It serves no obvious purpose, other than the give him slightly more surface area to lean against. “My back's acting up this morning. Can you get the bag off of my chair? Just unwind the straps on it, and it'll come right off. Rose'll take it with her.”

“You don't need it?” Thinking back, Karkat can't remember a single time he hasn't seen that stupid backpack on Dave's chair. “Doesn't it have your medications?”

“Rose is going to be, what? Maybe five yards away, tops. I'll be fine. I don't die  _that_ easily. Damn.” Dave snickers. When Karkat pulls at the chair a bit too hard, he yelps. His hands scramble, gripping, white-knuckled, to the pushrims. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, dude! My balance ain't that hot, don't be so damn rough with it.”

“Sorry.” At this point, the bag slides off of the handles. Karkat sets it aside, then returns to his spot on the sidewalk. “You never mentioned that, and it was tangled as fuck.”

“I don't usually think it's important, but I guess I should've, huh?” Dave's breathing is only now beginning to even out from the surprise. “I don't have abdominal control, dude, my balance is weird as hell. Its basically just hoping my center of gravity doesn't suddenly get yoinked. You wouldn't've known, so don't go and brood over it.”

“I... uh... I notice you got some stunt doubles.”

Dave's mood shifts. A wild smile splits across his usually passive features. “Yeah, cool story about that. A local injury support group heard I was going to put myself in the film, and they donated a nice chunk of moolah to us in exchange for sponsorship. We've reworked the script to be a little more intense. You won't believe how hard it was to find someone to cover for you, nubs.”

Karkat shies away from the nickname.

Dave notices. “Shit. Sorry. Was that, like, the troll equivalent of chastising your penis size? Uh... Shit.”

“No.” From Karkat, a shrug. “It's just that people used to tease me for it all the time. Trolls generally have pointy horns, and these definitely aren't. Doesn't matter that much, though.” He offers a smile, one that he tries to make reassuring, but is sure comes off as tentative. Nevertheless, he pushes the topic ahead. “I don't see a double for you.”

“I'm not hiring some two-bit dumbass to  _act_ like he's in a wheelchair. I'm covering my own damn stunts.” There's an edge to Dave's voice, one that hints at the touchy nature of the topic. “It'll be fine. Anyhow, it's just cheaper. We'd have to reproduce my chair, custom fit it for someone else, and then teach ’em how to use it properly. It's too much of a pain in the ass, and we just modified my stunts to make them work. They're more... uh... ground-based, I guess? On the solid earth? I don't know how to explain it, but it's less acrobatic.”

“Seems obvious enough.” Karkat is about to say more, only for Dave to be pulled aside.

Soon thereafter, shooting begins. Despite their status as costars, Karkat sees very little of Dave throughout the day. As it turns out, the opening scenes just don't involve them working together. So, they merely pass, like cliché ships in the night, and have the time to do little more than exchange nods and glances. Rehearsals go over well, and work wraps at 10:00 PM. Everyone is sent home, having knocked out the first three pages of the script.

* * *

**27 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios - Stunt Arena**  
Day 3 of filming

While appropriate locations are being scouted, and with torrential rains preventing much work on outdoor scenes, Jade is overseeing much of today's work. She's as bright and cheerful as ever, seeming to float through the space as she introduces herself. A loud whistle draws everyone's chattering to a trickling silence. “Good morning, everyone!” she smiles. “I'm Jade Harley, the head of safety for StriLonde Studios! I'm here for today's filming, because we'll be covering some of the stunt work in the film. As you can see, we have a lot of space here, and we can set up walls to keep everyone isolated. Everyone with a stunt scene, you've received a pamphlet with information about which parts we'll be working on today. If any of your work involves aerial stunts, please go to the far left side of the room. If you're a stunt driver, I'll meet you shortly out back, in the stunt lot. If you need help, or something happens, _please_ don't be an idiot. Talk to the safety staff. Paramedics are on site.”

The chatter begins to slowly resume.

Jade steps forward, beckoning for Dave and Karkat to follow. As she leads them to their section of the massive room, the heels of her black boots clack against the unpadded sections of concrete floor. She speaks as she walks, “Both of you will be working on your stunt sequences together, since most of them will be with both of you on screen at the same time. However, I'd like for Dave to practice first. Is that okay with you, Karkat? Your double is Boxcar, but he's only doing shots that don't require you to be facing the camera. For now, we're working on _your_ stunts.” She stops before a large section of padded flooring, notably larger than the others, with a sheet of floor-to-ceiling green screen dividing it from the people working next to them. Sturdy ramps and and bowl-like cutouts have been moved into the space, making it almost appear like a safety-minded skate park. “Actually, Boxcar is working on his stunts, too, in a different section.”

Karkat nods.

Dave offers a lazy thumbs up. “Sure. Go and watch the car people, before another one of them crashes into the studio.”

“Of course. Karkat, you're Dave's spotter. If anything happens, please call me.” Jade flashes a wide smile, then briskly departs.

The two men spend a few minutes in silence, studying their notes, before Dave clears his throat. Hidden beneath his clothing, woven expertly to blend with the wardrobe, Karkat notices an array of belts, which hold him in his chair. There's one across his lap, one just below his knees, and another over his feet. His white collared shirt is bulkier than usual, probably because of a safety vest. (Karkat only assumes this because he's also wearing one.)

“What sort of stunts are you even doing?”

Dave shrugs. “I guess you'd consider it WCMX, wheelchair motorcross. It's basically just skateboarding, but in a wheelchair. I'm not actually that great with it. It's why I scheduled the next few days for practice. I've toyed with it a little, but it makes me anxious as shit. But, hey, what the fuck do I have to lose?”

“The rest of your stupid spine, maybe?”

“Not too much to lose, then.” Dave parks himself in the middle of the mat. He moves around, until he's gained a fair mount of momentum, and throws his weight to the side. It's a sudden movement, one that forces his center of gravity to pivot on a single wheel of his chair rather than where it really should be. He turns on the single wheel, his balance precarious, and manages to hold his spot for a moment before tipping too far. “Yeah. Fuck. This is going to be harder than I thought.” He pushes against the ground, taking a few tries to properly right himself. “I know you're not big on stunt work, so I kept the shit you, specifically, have to do to a minimum.”

Karkat nods. He's not really paying much attention to what Dave's saying. He's more focused on what he's _doing_. He sits to the side, not daring to intervene unless called upon, and watches.

Of the many things he can say about his boyfriend, one of them is certainly that they're similarly stubborn. Dave persists with the same trick, repeating it again and again, consistently wiping out. It doesn't seem to matter how many times he fails, he simply dusts himself off and tries again. By the time an hour of practice has passed, his arms are covered in bruises and his hands have sustained a few scrapes.

“You know you can always rework the stunt, right?”

Dave looks up, drenched in sweat, and shakes his head. He approaches, downs a huge gulp of water, and grabs the towel from Karkat. He uses it to dry off his hair and face, failing to even pay attention to his thoroughly soaked shirt. “I could... Probably...” His breathing is heavy. “Fuck.” He rubs some of the scabbing on his palms. “Jesus. I need to take a break.”

“I was about to suggest that.” Karkat beckons for Dave to come closer. He takes his hands, studying the wounds, before shaking his head. He's in awe, but he can't tell if it's directed at Dave's dedication, or his headstrong stupidity. “Your script calls for a flip. Are you _actually_ going to try that? You do realize, somewhere in that fucking thick skull of yours, that there are probably professional stunt people who could pull that off in a much faster and safer way than you ever could.”

“I do,” acknowledges Dave, holding a bottle of cold water to his shoulder. “If I'm going to be back on set again, I'm going to actually be back on set. Thanks for the concern, but it ain't needed. We'll figure that out when we need to.” There's a few seconds of silence from the man, followed by a huff of determination. He hands over the water bottle, shakes himself off, and turns around. “Spot me.”

“And what the literal fuck do you think I've been doing for the past hour, dumbass? Picking my olfactory cartilage?”

Dave responds with a laugh and a raised middle finger. He tries again, for what seems like the hundredth time. Now, he sticks it. He balances through the entire spin, landing with a resounding and metallic clang, before shooting his boyfriend a triumphant grin. Shaking fingers run through wet hair, mussing it even further. “It takes a while, but I'll get the shit down. You want to fuckin’ watch me? I'll kick gravity's ass so hard it'll have to go crying back to the birth of the universe and ask for its lunch money back.” There's passion in Dave's words, a spark Karkat hasn't exactly seen before. The man is thrilled to be back, doing what he loves, and it's obvious.

In a way, Karkat can see why. There must be something comforting about the art of drama to Dave, who has spent his entire life acting along the lines of what society expects of him. He's a natural, a person willing to slip into any role and put his all into it. That's as obvious now as it had been in his earlier films. When he finds something he loves, he goes for it, and he doesn't let go, regardless of how the winds of fate may pull at him.

For once, Dave seems at peace. That usual hint of gloom—a seemingly inseparable part of his very being—has subsided, giving way to someone who's confident and comfortable with himself.


	29. Night Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dip into the psyche of a certain Dave Strider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song is by michael guy bowman, and you can [listen to it here](https://bowman.bandcamp.com/track/night-terrors)! mentions of abuse in the last section.

**28 February 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios - Stunt Arena**  
Day 4 of filming

It's noon.

The pounding of the rain against the roof underlays the bustling in the stunt arena. Work began for everyone at 6:00, and many members of the cast have happily taken up on Jade's offer to take two hours off. Where there had been the whirring of safety wires and the thud of bodies against padded mats, there's now the distinct rustling of people packing to leave. It comes from every section, save for one.

“I'm fucking begging you, Dave, take a break.” Karkat pleads with his boyfriend. “We've been at this stunt for _six goddamned hours_. Let's just go and get some damned lunch.”

The plan is for him to approach one of the many slopes at high speed, reach out, and flip around on his hand. Instead, for the past six hours, he's been skidding across the mats and concrete. Dried blood crusts his hair, stemming from a scrape he sustained on his scalp in the early hours of stunt work today, and his chair is covered in scrapes and scuffs. From his spot, tipped onto his side at the botom of the ramp, Dave groans. He presses against the floor, only managing to lift himself a few inches before dropping back to the floor. “Fuck. FUCK!”

Karkat approaches. “Do you want me to help?”

“Not yet. Let me...” Dave makes a second attempt, and fails to right himself. “Shit. _Shit._ ” A third attempt, followed by a reluctant sigh. “Yeah. Go for it.”

Karkat leans over. He tips Dave's chair back into the proper orientation, and eyes the man over. “God, Dave, you look like shit. You're pushing yourself too hard. Maybe _you_ have some sort of incoherent, dumb-as-fuck death wish, but I'd really prefer to not be a participant in it. In fact, it'd be pretty damned distressing for me to witness your death on set. Dry yourself off some, you're dripping with sweat, idiot.” He hands over a towel.

Dave opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a series of hoarse pants. He leans forward, against his knees, and spends the next few minutes catching his breath. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and soft. “Ugh. Shit. Useless as hell.” He slams a fist against his shaking right leg. “I should be able to do this. It's a basic goddamned trick. I don't have... Is it speed? Do I not have enough speed?” he mutters more to himself than to Karkat.

The troll responds with a heavy sigh. “Dave, we're not getting anywhere. Let's take a break, and we'll come back to work on it. You're tired, aren't you?”

“No.” It's an obvious lie. He struggles to sit up, wincing as he applies pressure against his knees. “I'm doin’ damned peachy. Give me...” He coughs, and it's not anything like his usual nervous tic. This time, it persists, lasting several seconds before he speaks again. “Give me a minute.”

“You stubborn, bull-headed idiot,” Karkat exclaims, “What the fuck are you trying to prove with this!?”

Dave recoils from the sudden outburst, and there's a flash of fear on his face. After a moment, he calms. “I'm provin’ that I can still do all the shit I've been too damned afraid to try for the past seven years,” he mumbles. He buries his face in his hands, and a hoarse hiccup of a sob escapes him. “I don't know, dude. I don't fuckin’ know.”

Karkat's demeanor softens. He sits, cross-legged, at Dave's side. Without really thinking about it, he rests his hand atop Dave's. “What's eating at your ruminating organ?”

Dave smirks at the odd phrasing, but he returns to his former state of exhaustion a few seconds later. “Security's seen Bro wandering nearby, and... Fuck. I know this'll sound dumb as hell, but it feels real shitty to know that I couldn't protect you from him. I can't even protect myself from him, now.”

A deep, instinctive rage boils in Karkat's heart. “Jesus, Dave, what did that bastard do to you?”

“There ain't enough time to go over all of it,” Dave says, his voice a soft whisper. “There'll never be enough time on this godforsaken rock in space for me to tell you everything he's ever done to me. He made me who I am, but I’m not so sure that's a good thing. I'm... God, Karkat, I'm scared shitless of him.”

“And you're safe, now, Dave. You're in the middle of a pretty well fortified building, and I'm more than certain that Rose could easily eviscerate that shit-tainted asshole without moving a muscle.”

“You don't understand,” says Dave. “You... I know you're tryin’ to do right by me, but I want to do right by you. He's hurt you once. Those goddamned hands have touched you, and that just makes me feel like absolute shit. I... uh... I'm sorry. You're just trying to help, and I'm being an absolute stick in the mud, huh? Don't matter what I do, I'll always fuck it up. I... Give me a minute.” He leans back, wincing as he digs the small of his back into the backrest of his chair. After a few minutes of deep breathing, he looks to Karkat. “I'd hate to modify the routine, but it might just be what needs to happen.”

Karkat shrugs. “Let's think about that later. Why don't we go and get something to eat?”

Dave nods.

* * *

**29 February 2020**  
**Kanaya Maryam's Home**  
2012 Bottle St.  
Dunwall County

Dave lays on the sofa, a heating pad tucked under his back, and with his hands folded atop his chest. He refuses to look at Rose, even as he speaks to her. “I don't know, dude. Shit's just really hitting the fan, Rose. I sure ain't too keen on understanding everything that happens in my head, but I guess that's what I really need to do. I think... Karkat deserves more than what I'm givin’ him, don't he? I think he does. I really do.”

Rose nods. She says nothing, but she scribbles something down in the notepad in her lap. Perhaps she's not even writing notes; for all Dave knows, she's just doodling. But, at the very least, he can be assured without a doubt that she's listening to him.

“I hate to say it, Rose, really. I really, _really_ hate to say it, but I'm scared.” Dave covers his eyes with his arm. “Maybe, if this happened a year ago, I wouldn't have given too much of a shit, but... It's like I've got something to lose, now. You feel? Of course you do. You've got Kanaya. I've got Karkat. And I'm just afraid of losing him. In every sense I can think of the phrase. I don't want to lose him.” His fingers brush against the bottle of Hardliner on the floor, but he decides against taking a sip. He'll save it for later. “I know he's a grown ass man. Troll. Alien. God. I'm dating an alien. And I'm just consumed by this insane need to protect him. I'll put myself between him and a bullet if I needed to. Is that weird?”

Rose, to Dave's surprise, smiles. “No, it's not. That's the very basis of love, Dave, and it's wonderful you feel that way.”

“I don't know why I do,” he shrugs. “Honestly? I'm more willing to protect him than I am to keep my own ass alive. It just doesn't seem to make sense t’me. Self preservation's just been my whole life, y’know? I spent my whole life being as unassumin’ as possible. Head down, quiet, fightin’. Why is it different now? I... God. I just think about Karkat, and my heart is doing these impossible flips all around my chest. Just the idea that Bro could even have a chance at hurting him? It makes me sick to my damned stomach.”

“He's a perfectly capable troll in his own right,” counters Rose, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against her notes. “You've made mention of this fact, just moments ago. Perhaps what is truly holding you back and impeding the growth of the relationship is _you_ , and your inability or unwillingness to grasp and fully digest what has happened to you. Have you spoken to him about it?”

“In passin’, sure,” Dave nods. “What? You're sayin’ you want me to actually tell someone else about all that? Jesus, Rose, that's enough baggage to kill every pack mule on the planet. I'll open my mouth, and everyone in a thirty mile radius is gonna’ be scramblin’ for shelter. Ain't a person on this earth who wants to hear that.”

“And, yet, have you not spoken of how much you appreciate Karkat's willingness to take your feelings into consideration?” There's an edge to Rose's voice, an inexplicable way of speaking that bores through Dave's outer shell, piercing to his heart. “Open your eyes, Dave! Karkat is absolutely _infatuated_ with you. I certainly don't understand why, but he is. He respects you in every way he can, even when he's pulling his hair out over how you act. Did you know that, after filming wrapped yesterday, he called Kanaya? They talked at length about his fears for your well-being, of his overcoming anxiety that you were pushing yourself too hard. He _loves you_ , Dave.”

“Yeah?” Dave shoves himself into a sitting position, inching himself back, until he can lean against the sofa's armrest. “And, fuck, I love that shouty little bastard, too, but that's _exactly_ why I want to keep my shit to myself. You realize how much shit he'd flip if he knew everything that's happened to me? We'd have shit pancakes for years, Rose. _Years._ And he doesn't deserve it.”

Rose's prying gaze lands on Dave, leaving him feeling inexplicably vulnerable. “Is this really a question of what you, in all truthful fidelity, believe that Karkat _deserves_ , or a quandary of your own design? Do you actually think that Karkat wouldn't throw himself at any chance to better understand you, and who you are, regardless of how painful it may be to hear? Or, perhaps, you're too wrapped up in yourself, and your own tumultuous inner pains to consider that?”

Dave falls silent. He closes his eyes, picturing Karkat. The words his sister speaks strike him with an almost palpable force. “I... I don't want to remember it. I don't want any part of it.”

“It's part of who you are, Dave. You must accept it at some point, or else it will simply wither your conscience away, until you're a husk. I should know. You saw how I treated alcohol, Dave. You know what it does to you. Do you want that to happen?”

A shiver overcomes Dave. He can see himself, a mirror image of his brother, in five years. Bitter, alone, and being trampled by a cavalcade of drugs and booze. “No,” he says, his voice firm, “That won't happen. It can't happen. I... Rose, if that ever starts happenin’, put me out of my misery. Promise me.”

“Well, Dave, only you can prevent it,” tuts the woman. She shakes her head. “I think we've done enough today, Dave. You're clearly distressed. However, I beg of you to consider my warning, and I would be thrilled to see you heed it. You have people who love and support you, Dave. You're no longer obligated to suffer in silence, as much as Bro would love for you to believe that. You're far more than that, than him.” She flips her notepad closed, then rises to her feet. “Thank you for trusting me enough to divulge this information, Dave.”

“Well, thank you for listening to my sob story.” Dave smiles. He tries to make it appear as carefree as possible, but he's fully aware of how much of his anxiety bleeds through.

 

In the realm of his dreams, Dave finds himself standing before the edge of a cliff, overlooking a steep precipice. Below, idling in a lovely-looking park, he can see all the people he cares about. Jade, John, Rose, and Dirk are speaking with one another. Who knows what they're discussing? They're enjoying themselves, and it fills Dave with a sense of overwhelming peace. Then, there's Karkat. He's separated from the rest of the group, and stands at the bottom of the cliff, looking up. Looking  _at_ him.

The troll waves and calls out, but the wind sweeps away his words.

Instead, what Dave hears is a gravelly, rough voice, one that strikes fear into his heart. “I finally caught up with you, lil’ bro. You sure have run for a long time. Running. Always running, aren't you?”

He turns, and finds himself eye-to-eye with the pointed shades. He sees the smirk, spread across a pale face, one that looks unnervingly like his own. He sees the leather gloves, mirroring the ones he's wearing, and he reacts on instinct. He turns to run, only for his dreams to catch up to reality. His legs give out beneath him, and he falls. He drags himself with his hands, scrambling, fighting against gravity. His words catch in his throat, escaping as strangled sobs.

“You little bastard. You left me to die, didn't you?” A hand reaches out and grabs onto Dave. Without the mass of about half of his body's musculature, he's easy to lift.

He dangles, helpless, writhing, and sobbing. His mind swims with memories.

When he was five, he fell and scraped his knee. He went inside, to tell Bro, and was treated to a smack across the face. He'd been scooped up, and there was a moment of naive hope that Bro would nurture him, as a guardian should. Instead, he had a dirty rag rubbed across the wound and was thrown to the floor, locked in his room for daring to express discomfort.

When he was seven, he asked to have a birthday party. “E’ryone else gets one,” he had mumbled, bashful, with his hands folded behind his back. “Can I have one?” Bro had kicked him in the head. On December third, Bro entered his bedroom. The man took into his hands Dave's PlayStation, the last thing his mother had given him before she left, and pummeled it with a baseball bat. He left the jagged plastic shards on the floor.

When he was ten, he got into a fight at school. When he got home, his brother beat him.

Memory upon memory, heartbreak upon heartbreak.

“Who would ever love you, you freak?” The voice pulls Dave back into the moment.

He looks down, and finds himself dangling over the cliff.

Karkat is gone, now. The scene has shifted. His friends stand far away, now, looking disgusted.

“TELL ME,” demands Bro, “WHO WOULD EVER LOVE YOU!?”

“Nobody,” Dave recites.

Bro smirks. He releases his grip, and Dave falls.

His vision swims. He's too stunned to scream. Just before he hits the ground, he closes his eyes. There's an all-too-familiar crunch—the sound of breaking bones, tearing muscles—and... He wakes. He's covered in sweat, and his hands shake as he covers his face. Alone, in the privacy of his own room, Dave rolls over and sobs.


	30. Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions made on a dreary Saturday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> has anyone noticed i'm a muse fan yet? [here's a link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPE9uSFFxrI). we're discussing bro this chapter, so watch out for mentions of abuse and gaslighting and basically bro being a steaming douchelord.

**29 February 2020**  
**Karkat Vantas' Apartment**  
Golden Hill Tower, Room 814  
915 E. Windward St.  
Eastern Skaia City

When Karkat answers the knock on his apartment door, at somewhere around 10:00 AM, the last thing he expects to find is his boyfriend.

And, yet, here he is. Dave. Dressed in a tattered black t-shirt, torn jeans, and a baggy brown windbreaker. His hair is untamed, wild, and soaked with sweat. His shades are clipped to his collar, and his eyes are filled with an unparalleled level of desperation. “Karkat,” he mumbles, and the tension in his shoulders immediately dissipates. “God. I know I look like absolute shit, like the goddamned cat just pulled me face-first through hell, and I feel like it. I'm sorry I didn't text, I feel awful about it, and I shouldn't have stolen the elevator key when the useless receptionist wasn't looking, but I'm... Can I come inside?” Slowly, the man licks his lips. His brows furrow, and he taps his fingers against his motionless knees. “Please,” he adds.

Karkat, having only just woken up a few minutes ago, combs his claws through his hair. He steps aside. “Uh. Yeah. Fuck. Dave, what's wrong?”

“It's... Shit. This is going to be a long story. Did I wake you up?” He's anxious. That's obvious. Dave's acting squirrelier than usual, rocking his chair back and forth as he waits for a response.

Karkat, seeing no reason to do otherwise, answers truthfully. “Yeah. Sort of.”

Dave shakes his head. “Oh. Fuck. I'm... I can wait. D'you want me to uh... Should I wait?”

“No, of course not! Stop being so anxious all the time. I'm not going to punish you for needing to talk to someone.” Karkat, too, shakes his head. He wanders to the kitchen, and begins preparing himself breakfast. Today, he decides upon pancakes. As he begins to make them, he looks to Dave. “Have you had any fucking breakfast, you self-destructive fuckhead?”

“No.”

“I'll make you some.” Karkat nods to the dining room table. After he's gotten the pancakes going, he steps over, moving one of the chairs out of the way, so that Dave can pull in. “What sort of flavorful additive would you like?”

Dave is silent.

“Come on, you stubborn old bastard, you're worrying me. My pulmonary pumping organ can't handle this stress. Talk to me. Say anything!” Karkat, by now once again tending to the stovetop, turns around. He folds his arms and leans against the kitchen counter. “Dave?”

“I just... I need to get shit off of my chest. I... I've... Oh, shit, not now. Uh... Words.” He rubs his thumbs against his temples. “I've told you about Bro, haven't I?”

“A little,” responds Karkat. He tries to hold the apprehension in his voice back, but he's not entirely certain he does a decent job at it. “If I ever meet him again, I'll slit his fucking throat.”

Dave nods, seeming to agree with the idea. “I... God. He's fucked me over so much. I just... You know he abused me, right? To put it right out there, bare and naked with its unpleasant goddamned tits hanging out. He made me... Or, maybe, I made myself... I feel like I don't deserve you, Karkat. To be honest. I'm a fuckin’ pile of trash, and you're, what? A twenty-four karat gilded trophy. I don't... I'm not great with words. Not great with feelin’ and all that. It ain't what I'm used to. I'm closer to tap dancing my way across the entirety of the Washington Mall than I am to getting any real grasp on my emotions, but I've got to... You deserve to know about it.”

Karkat's face melts, showing an expression of pure hurt. His pain isn't for himself, but for Dave. Instinctively, he steps toward him.

The man shakes his head. “Please. Don't... Don't touch me. Not now. Not while I'm thinking about this... It's... Not pleasant. Ain't pleasant at all, really.” He laughs, but it's nervous and withdrawn. Whnen he speaks, he keeps his eyes locked on his scab-covered hands. “First time I ever felt someone touch me in a way that wasn't, like, seeking to cause me actual harm was—ah—probably when I was thirteen. I just grew up thinkin’ everyone showed how much they cared by hitting people. It's how I was raised, I guess. And it's just... I'm unlearning  _so much_ shit, Karkat.

“And I know I'll get something wrong. Some day, I'll get something wrong. It's not the easiest thing to unlearn everything you've ever known. I don't understand how to be a good goddamned boyfriend, dude. I really don't. You're just... I think you're so damned amazing, really. You're so obviously wild about me, and it sort of hurts to know that. And I don't know why. But it... I think it's because I've never felt  _worthy_ of love. Since I was a kid, I was burden. Bro hated me, he hated that he ended up raising me. And I took all that hate, and I thought it was love. I guess...” Dave pauses. He coughs. Around now, Karkat notices the redness of Dave's nose.

Silently, as Dave processes what he wants to say next, Karkat reaches into his medicine cabinet. He takes out some cold and flu medication, and sets a dosage aside for Dave.

“Meeting your Dad was... It was like when I met John's Dad. It was wild. This sort of, ‘Oh, holy shit’ moment. I realized that your parents or your guardian or who-fuckin’-ever is supposed to care about you and nurture you. Not beat you senseless every time you bothered them. I realized how I grew up was absolutely, insanely fucked thirty ways to sideways. I mean, it took me years of living with Rose to get that I didn't need to flinch every time someone wanted to hug me or hold my hand or touch my shoulder. It's... God. I'm just ruining your morning, huh?” Another anxiety-laden laugh, but there's no smile on Dave's face.

“You could burn down this entire shitty apartment building, and just because  _you_ did it, my morning would improved tenfold,” reassures Karkat. “You're never bothering me, Dave, no matter what the inane little voice in the darkest reaches of your scrambled think-pan might say. And, if you'd like for me to share my paternal guardian unit, I'd be happy to. Crabdad would love having you as an adoptive son.”

Now, Dave smiles. It's slight, but it's present. The minute he continues talking, however, it disappears. “Thank you. That. Uh. That really. It uh... Fuck. It's... important to me?” He's hesitant in his phrasing, obviously struggling to find the right words. Ultimately, he decides not to pursue that line of thought any further, and he delves back into what he had been saying. “Look, my thing is that I want to protect you. And I know you can protect yourself, you buff bear of a troll, but  _I_ want to protect you from my shit of a brother. It's, like, my civic duty to keep that raging idiot from hurting anyone but me.”

“But you?” Karkat snaps. “So, what, you'll let him hurt you?”

“I'd rather he hurt me than you, Kar. I've been under his fists enough times. It doesn't really faze me, now. ‘Sides, I'm sure it ain't anything compared to chronic nerve pain. He can wail on me all he wants, but, if he touches you? I'd never forgive myself. I can't even forgive myself for letting him touch you once, and all he did was give you a bloody nose.” Dave is adamant. As much as he'd like to, Karkat knows he can't sway Dave's opinion on the matter. Instead, he hears him out, nodding as he pushes ahead, “It's always just been me. Me against the world, alone. I know that my friends have my back, but I just... Up ‘til now, I've always felt that it's just me, fighting this big, stupid, unfair world. This crapsack world that creamed me into oblivion with a semi-trailer, took away my goddamned sense of self, and practically ruined my life. But, now? I... Uh... God. This is so corny. But... I feel like it's me  _and you_ against the world.”

”Maybe the world isn't against you, Dave, have you ever stopped and considered that?” Karkat counters.

Dave shrugs. “Look, dude, slightly over half of my body just doesn't fuckin’ work. My brain's shot to shit, and I've got the emotional equivalent of a torndocane—a tornado and a hurricane  _at the same time_ —vying for my attention at all hours. It's hard  _not_ to feel like I'm fighting to survive.”

Karkat falls silent. In retrospect, he considers that his experiences aren't universal. Who is he to say how Dave should think of the world around him? “Sorry.”

“No, it's me. It's just... God. I've been depressed as fuck for years, man. I could go full Lalonde on your ass, wax poetic about all the things that drag me into the deepest, shittiest pits of mental hell, but that's not the point. My point is that I... Uh... God.  _Fuckin’ words_. I care ‘bout you a whole damn lot, and I really don't want to fuck this up. You deserve better than me, but you seem dead-fuckin’-set on me, for some reason I sure can't riddle out. I just... I want to understand you, and for you to understand me, even if I can't understand me, you understand?”

“That's a lot of instances of the word ‘understand’, to the point I'm not sure it's even a valid combination of letters in the English language, but I think I grasp what you're saying.” Karkat slides the pancakes from the cooktop and onto a plate. He brings them over, sets them in the middle of the table, and serves up two empty plates. “It's a serve yourself deal. Thanks for sharing all of this with me, Dave. I mean... God. This is a lot to take in, and it makes me pissed as hell on your behalf, but I'm flattered you trust me enough to let me into your life like this.”

Dave nods. He takes a hearty serving of pancakes. He eats quickly, as if someone is going to take his food from him, but Karkat doesn't comment on the habit. Rather, Dave is allowed to speak freely. “Yeah, well, ditto. I know it wasn't an ideal morning, probably, but it's nice that you know this shit, now.”

Karkat, now prodding at his own breakfast, offers a small smile. There's something cautiously optimistic about it, about his mien. “You know what? As fucking pissed off at everything I've heard—and, before your incomprehensible little mind runs off into the wrong end zone with that, it's not at you, it's _for_ you, —I'm glad I know it, too. I understand you better.”

“Yeah. Uh... Would you mind driving me home? I rode the bus all the way here, and I kind of only brought enough money for one ride, because I'm an absolute shithead.”

“Aren't you filthy rich?”

Dave laughs. “I'm not going to go around carrying hundreds of dollars on my person. That's a recipe for getting mugged. No, I only ever carry as much as I think I'll need.”

From Karkat, a sigh and a roll of the eyes. “Fine, dumbass. I'll drive you home later.”

* * *

**29 February 2020**  
**Kanaya Maryam's Home**  
2012 Bottle St.  
Dunwall County

When Dave returns home, he finds the house empty. However, set upon the coffee table, he finds a note, penned in flowing pink cursive, and his driver's license.

Dave,

Karkat contacted me earlier to inform me of your recent breakthrough. To directly plagiarize the words of John's father, I'm proud of you! You have made incredible progress, and I believe it is just about time for me to return this to you. Please drive responsibly, as I'd rather not have to retrieve you from a hospital in the near future. I had your car inspected and serviced recently.

Speaking of car servicing, did you know that Kanaya has great skill with a wrench? What I am alluding to is that she's actually an adept car repairperson. She replaced your air filter, cleaned out your manifolds, and ensured that your oil was changed. She also rotated your tires. Perhaps you should thank her some time. (A hearty nudge nudge, so to speak.) She enjoys those long, chocolate-filled biscuits.

None of that was really relevant. More to the point, we have gone out to see a movie. Both of us have been quite interested in _Market Street_ , the recently released film about a romance between a butcher and a chemistry teacher. When we return, I'll be sure to tell you all about it. I know you're _dying_ to hear about the affairs of my life.

For now, farewell,  
Rose Lalonde

After returning his license to the appropriate slot in his wallet, Dave flips the page over. Using a nearby red pen, he writes his own response.

Rose,

Thanks for the license back. I will speed and swerve and drive under the influence of my prescribed medications just for you. Didn't know Kanaya worked with cars, but what the fuck doesn't she do? I guess she doesn't glow, so that's a mark against her. I'm literally begging you to not tell me anything about that shitty-sounding movie. If you need me, I'll be in the guest room, reviewing set notes.

Thanks,  
Dave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit is gonna hit the FAN in the next chapter. it’s the day before my birthday so have a bonus chapter.


	31. Living in the Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day-to-day lives of two dating film stars, and how their dumbassery calls for many retakes, or the storm that comes after the calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this is the song from spongebob. [here are the anchovies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qF4RCOcz9ow). Plot™ happens in the last section of this chapter, so be aware of some violence.

**4 March 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios**  
1102 Bayfont Pl.  
Skaia City  
Day 8 of filming

“So, Marseille, I'll ask you again: how did you die?” Dave speaks his lines without hesitation. He's the picture of professionalism, and he's assumed his role without hesitation. His hands are folded atop the executive desk he's behind, and his expression is perfect—conflicted, confused, and a touch of pissed off. “Just who are you, and how are you here?” He inhales from the cigarette in his hand—a real one, much to Rose's express distaste—and exhales a small trail of smoke from his nostrils.

Karkat, knowing he's yet to attain the level of talent Dave has, does his best. He reaches deep within himself, touching base with the persona he's to be adopting. _‘I am a grizzled detective,’_ he reminds himself, _‘I have seen the horrors of humankind, and been reborn to experience them again.’_ He postures himself, with his brows furrowed, and his body radiating nothing short of pure, unbridled frustration. “If I knew how I had died, and how I ended up here, I wouldn't be asking you, now, would I!?” He approaches, slams his hands on the desk, and prepares to say the rest of his lines, only to rip a loud, rank fart. He bursts out laughing.

Dave does, too.

From behind the camera, John has fallen to the floor and is rolling around on the ground. If there's one thing that man loves, it's a good flatulence gag.

Sollux, currently operating the boom mike, swears. He drops the microphone and storms off.

“Jesus fuck. Sorry,” Karkat wheezes between laughs, “God. Oh shit. I shouldn't have had that burrito.”

Dave, also in hysterics, is slamming his palm against the desk. “Can someone call emergency services? The spinally compromised man is having breathing problems. I'm being smothered by a fog of rancid alien gas! Damn, Kar, not even _Egbert_ has farts that bad, and that's assumin’ he's gulped down some milk.”

From the side, with the bridge of her nose pinched between her fingers, Rose steps forward. “Oh, for the love of Christ, everyone! Cut! Can we not compose ourselves and take this seriously? This is the _thirteenth_ shot of this scene. It's one page! Please! I'm begging you all, I would like to go and eat lunch with my wonderful, radiantly gay girlfriend. _Please._ ”

Dave waves his hand. By now, he's calming down. “Sorry, Rose. Blame Karkat this time.”

From the woman, there comes a loud sigh. She begins counting off her statements on her fingers. “So far, we've had _multiple_ mishaps involving fraternal in-jokes, two inappropriately timed belchings, one instance of our cameraman demanding that he have a moment to pick his nose, and, now, this!?” She shakes her head. She's obviously frustrated, but there's still a hint of a smirk, which threatens to work its way onto her face. She fans the air in front of her. “Can someone please retrieve some air freshener? Dave wasn't exaggerating for once. Karkat, that smells positively carious.”

Karkat smirks. “Apologies, Miss Lalonde.”

“And will someone please find our key grip and current boom operator?” Rose shakes her head. (A slight, scrawny, and quiet intern, by the name of Leonardo, volunteers to perform the task.) “The two of you should never have been allowed to work together on a set. Should we resort to greenscreening you into the same scenes?” Her hands are on her hips, now, and the small smile has broken through her mask of annoyance. “For shame, Dave, do you not pride yourself as a professional?”

Dave, flustered, jabs an accusatory finger at the troll before him. “It's not my fault he's cute as hell!”

Karkat counters, “It's not my fault he's a pompous twink with all the charm of a diseased boll weevil!”

“Hey, now, I think I'm gonna’ take offence to that!” huffs Dave, puffing out his cheeks. “I don't even know what a boll weevil _is_. You can't insult me with somethin’ I don't know.”

Rose supplies an answer to Dave's unspoken inquiry. “A boll weevil, _dear brother_ , is an insect. It feeds on cotton and is an incredibly reviled pest.” There's something biting but playful in the way she addresses her sibling. “Will the two of you cease your public flirting for a few minutes, so that we may conclude this session and have our midday sustenance?”

Dave wheels around from behind the desk. He takes a bottle of water from one of the drawers as he passes, takes a sip, and passes it to Karkat. “Yeah, man, your head isn't in the game. Get your head in the game.” He repositions himself, pressing against the wheels of his chair to lift his body before dropping back down. “Eyes on the ball, balls to the wall. Finish the scene, don't get beaned. We're shootin’ for the gold, and we don't got time to hold.”

“Do you ever stop running your stupid little intake organ, or are you just naturally this dense?” goads the troll.

Dave raises his shades just long enough to wink. “I'm all natural, my pal. Ain't nothin’ fake ‘bout this homegrown stupid. I roll my ass out into the sweet, sticky fields of stupid every morning, and I break my back all over again harvesting those lucrative little buds. After that, take myself right on down to the market, where I peddle my wares with the skilled finesse of a fine snake oil salesman.”

It takes all the composure Karkat has to not bust out laughing. “You never actually listen to what you say, do you, dumbass? You just open your mouth and let that puerile slop flow forth in an endless, flamboyant cavalcade of inanity.”

Dave blinks. “Woah, dude, you're usin’ words way too big for me. My horribly bruised little brain ain't that fast. Can I have a second to get a dictionary?” The words are delivered in absolute deadpan, with an expression to match it. Only the slightest twitch of his brow indicates his bemusement. “Back to business real fast, though, nice touch. The desk slam? That was some good improv, but I'd have liked to get a warnin’ before that. Kind of freaked me out.”

“Shit, sorry.” Karkat frowns. He wrings his hands together. “It... uh...”

“Yeah, it kind of reminded me of Bro,” admits Dave. “Don't worry about it. Are you doing it again next shot?”

“You said you liked it, so I guess I will.” Karkat has shifted to rubbing the back of his neck. As he does this, he does double duty and scratches a stubborn itch behind his ear. The two men's gazes meet, and there's a magnetic pull between them. Both seem to lean to one another, ready to kiss, only to be interrupted by a voice beside them.

“YES, HELLO, AND WE HAVE LOCATED OUR KEY GRIP!” Rose's boisterous proclamation startles both men into visibly jumping, and the snicker she allows herself to release is evidence of her enjoyment of the moment. “Okay, you two, we're going to try this _one more time_. Karkat, I cannot rightfully threaten you with bodily harm, but I am fully within my right to tell Dave that I _will_ post his Netflix history to the crew-wide message board should he fail to cooperate.”

A gasp of faux shock comes from the man. “Rose, you promised it would be a secret that I sometimes watch _Paw Patrol_.”

“My boss is a furry?” utters Sollux as he passes. “Oh, shit, this is just some good as hell info.”

Dave sighs. He shakes his head. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“And I am absolutely starving for something to eat that isn't Ritz Bits, Dave.” Rose tuts. She retreats from frame, and stands beside Sollux with the clapperboard. Once everyone has returned to the appropriate spots, she calls out, “Scene eight, take, —” she groans, “—fucking _fourteen_. Roll film.”

_CLACK!_

 

Backstage, after finally managing to muddle through the entirety of scene eight without a mishap, a man and his alien boyfriend lounge in the staff break room. Dave is nursing a cigarette, while Karkat is sputtering and coughing his way through a single fake one.

“Fucking shit. These things are awful,” the troll wheezes. “I don't give a fuck what this box says, these taste about as much like mint as tree-swinging mammal feces.”

“Oh, yeah, fake cigarettes are monkey shit.” Dave shrugs. He takes a deep drag from his own cigarette, only to come away coughing as well. “Ah. Fuck. My lungs are rebelling against my life choices.”

“Are real ones any easier?”

Dave pauses. He rolls his smoldering stick of tobacco between his fingers, failing to notice as some of the embers come dangerously close to burning him. “Totally. And their smoke doesn't gouge out your eyes like the fake ones, but I won't give you one.”

“Aw. Why not?” Karkat groans. Honestly, he'd sworn he'd never smoke, but the sheer shittiness of fake cigarettes is starting to push him towards the real product. “Come on, just for shots.”

Dave laughs bitterly. “That's what I said, too, and look at me now!” He gestures to himself, releasing bits of flickering orange detritus from his cigarette in the process. The embers fall to the concrete floor and smolder to nothing. “You won't just have one, dude. You'll have one, then another, and another, ‘til you're hacking up a lung in a hospital room and all these folks in white scrubs're tellin’ you need to stop before your deflated lung'll blow out flatter than a bullet-riddled tire if you keep goin’.” In spite of his words, he takes another drag, only to sputter again. He reluctantly extinguishes the tobacco in a plain ceramic ashtray nearby. “I've probably been smokin’ too much.”

“How much?” asks Karkat, suddenly aware of how hoarse Dave's breathing is.

“I've been pretty stressed lately so, uh... ‘Bout two packs a day for the past two weeks?” He shrugs. “I'll cut back. Promise.”

It dawns upon Karkat why Rose is so concerned about this, now. “Why is it you're not supposed to be inhaling toxic dust, anyhow?”

“Oh. Well, I mean, besides the obvious lung shit, it kind of fucks with your circulation. And mine is already out of whack. I used to have asthma as a kid, too, so maybe I shouldn't've picked up smoking.” When Karkat reacts with a low growl, Dave seems to shrink in on himself. “Sorry. Do... uh... Do trolls have asthma?”

“Some do. It's not common.” Karkat shrugs. He sits beside Dave, listening to his breathing. “You used to have it?”

“It just kind of wandered into a shit-streaked sunset at some point. Why?”

“Sound to me like it's coming back, you insufferable idiot.”

“Mm. Probably.” Dave seems remarkably nonplussed by this news. “I wouldn't be surprised if it is. I'll check with my doctor later.”

Karkat sighs. It's obvious that now isn't the time to convince Dave to quit smoking, nor is it the right opportunity for him to chastise him about his lack of attentiveness to his own health. So, instead, he changes the subject. “After we talked, I called my dad. He said he'd be happy to have you as an adoptive son. I got home yesterday, and that crotchety old bastard had mailed me a package with _your_ name on it.” With this said, he takes the box from his bag. The mailing label holds on the bright red wrapping paper. A few years ago, the reminder of his mutant blood would have made him cringe, now it's strangely comforting.

Dave snickers. “You didn't open it?”

“Why the fuck would I? My name sure as hell isn't ‘Mr. Dave Striderman’, is it?”

There's a moment of shock, hinting at a history of privacy breaches in Dave's past. When it melts away, it's replaced by a nervous smile. “Well, technically, my name also isn't ‘Dave Striderman’.”

“Cut Crabdad a break. He tried.”

Dave acknowledges the comment with a huff. He carefully tears into the paper, then folds it and sets it aside. He opens the plain cardboard box, and finds himself staring at a collection of carefully jarred pickled goods and a large bag of Jelly Grubbies. “Oh. Shit.” The first thing he takes from the box is a jar of plain pickles. He eagerly pops it open, and devours three in the span of a minute. “Oh, fuck, that's good. Does your dad garden?”

“Yeah, he grows stuff to use at the restaurant,” Karkat shrugs. He's always known his father to be a generous person, a sort of southern gentleman, but he truly didn't expect for him to send something like this. At most, he thought it'd be a blanket or some other vague and riskless expression of fatherly affection. He snatches up one of the jars, staring at it in disbelief. “He sent you pickled green beans? What the fuck. He never let me eat these. They were too popular at the restaurant.”

“I guess he just loves his new son more than you.” Dave puts on a clearly feigned pout and pats Karkat on the shoulder. “It's okay to cry about it, man. That must be tough.”

Karkat responds with a low, playful snarl. “Whatever, Dave. Enjoy your damned pickles.”

“Oh, you bet your sweet ass I will,” the man snickers.

The troll, despite his best efforts, joins in on the merriment.

* * *

**10 March 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios**  
1102 Bayfont Pl.  
Skaia City  
Day 11 of filming

It's been an unseasonably warm day, and the night is similar. Around 7:00, the temperature had been in the low seventies. Now, as it nears midnight, it's dropping back to a more seasonable reading of a low sixty-something.

Filming wrapped for the day four hours ago, but Dave chose to stay behind to clean up the set and prepare for the upcoming day of green screen work. He's finished putting some finishing touches on some of the hand-painted props and set pieces. Karkat had stayed for a while, but ultimately left at 10:30, citing how tired he was. Not that Dave blames him.

He's left notes on Jade's desk, in what everyone refers to as the ‘cubicle room’. Now, with all of his work finished for the day, he makes preparations to leave. He locks his office, and roams around the halls for a few minutes to make sure he doesn't accidentally leave anyone in the studio overnight. (He locked John in once, and that was a disaster. Never again.) When he's assured that he's alone, a familiar, unpleasant anticipation settles in his stomach. He finds himself looking over his shoulder and second-guessing every strange shadow or errant noise.

 _‘I am alone,’_ he reassures himself. _‘There isn't a thing in this building I don't know about at this point. How could there be?’_

By the time he's exited, and is on his way across the parking lot, he's calmed down. He hums to himself as he opens the passenger door and tosses his notes into the front seat. He climbs inside, starts up the car, and is preparing to call Rose when he hears it. A familiar voice, which comes from the backseat.

“You should probably tell your security staff to keep an eye on the cars in their parking lot, too, kid.”

Dave freezes. He wants to convince himself that what's happening isn't real, that he's simply imagining things in the darkness. Maybe he's just outright sleep-deprived. He raises his eyes to the rearview mirror, only to find himself looking into the reflected eyes of an unwelcome face.

“What? You're not happy to see me, your _dear brother_!?” The way he speaks is venomous, it's violent. He spits the words out with force. “Smile, little bro, you ain't glad to see the man who raised you?”

“Not sure what you did could be considered ‘raising’ me, bastard,” Dave counters, stiff and tense. His hands grip the steering wheel as if letting go will result in his death. “What the fuck do you want? Why would you bother coming back, now, after all these goddamned years?”

“Because it seems to me you ain't learned a damn thing from me. Seems to me like you need another beatdown, teach you how a true man is supposed to share his ‘fections.”

The mere mention of the word—beatdown—sends Dave's heart rate skyrocketing. He switches to survival mode, yet all that does is freeze him in place. He doesn't dare to open his mouth. He doesn't think about fighting.

“Nothing to say ‘bout it?”

Dave finds that his lips are suddenly dry, unbearably so, and he licks them. Then, in a voice so shaky it's almost laughable, he gives his brother an answer he knows will only get him in more trouble. “If I let you do this, promise you won't go near Karkat.”

“Won't lay a hand on that pansy. Scout's fuckin’ honor,” Bro says, his voice unnervingly solemn. He exits the car.

Dave has a chance—a split second of a moment—to escape, but he doesn't. He's afraid of what could happen, not only to himself, but to Karkat. In fact, he's more concerned about Karkat.

Still, he considers what _could_ be. He could floor it, run over Bro, end all of this. He could call the police, call the security personnel; no, not that second one. All of the security guards were allowed to leave with everyone else. Bad idea, perhaps... Maybe he could get out the gun he always has in his glove box. One shot, and everything would be over. He'd be free.

By the time he's finished thinking of all the ways he could get out of this, it's too late. The driver's side door is opened, and a rough, leather-covered hand pulls him out of the car. He's thrown to the ground, and a sword is dropped at his side. “Get up and fight like a man.”

Dave shoves himself, throwing his weight so that he rolls onto his back. He snatches up the sword, using it just in time to avoid a downward slice to the throat. The impact is hard and relentless.

“GET UP!” Though he sees himself being kicked in the side, Dave doesn't feel it.

The sword comes down again. This time, the parry is too slow. Metal cuts through flesh, ripping through Dave's denim jacket. He knows by experience what sort of injury he's sustained. It'll need stitches, but he wouldn't classify it as serious. This is a scrape by his standards.

Another blow.

Another miss. The blade knocks his shades off of his face, and, over the pounding of his own heart, Dave hears them shatter against the asphalt. He's still processing this when the final blow comes. The blade comes down, straight and true, through his hand. If it weren't for the fact that this is happening to him, and that the situation is terrifying as hell, he'd laugh; he's say it's cliché. He doesn't feel it going in, but, when the blade is removed, he feels it come out. He fails to stifle his shout.

“Dammit. Shut up, you little bitch.” A kick to the head blurs Dave's vision. “You're still a pathetic little baby, huh? Whatever. I'll be back. Don't disappoint me next time.” The man leans over, scoops up the second sword, and departs. He wanders away, disappearing into the inky blackness of a nearby alley.

After some time, and through the haze of shock, Dave pulls his phone from his pocket. He doesn't consider calling emergency services; the thought simply doesn't cross his mind. Instead, he dials Rose's number.

“Oh. David. What? It's midnight, and I'm trying to sleep. Please. If this is another round of gushing about Karkat, can you save it for the morning?” She's annoyed.

She's annoyed _with him_ , and it's not the standard, friendly, bantering annoyance. No, this is pure, simple exhaustion. He has no way of knowing if it's because of him, and how often he asks her for help, or if it's because he's calling at midnight. Logic would dictate that it's the latter of the two reasons, but the overpowering fear, which courses through his veins like fire, convinces him it's the former. Crestfallen, he refuses to speak.

“Dave?” She's worried, now. “Dave? DAVE!? Dammit, Dave, where are you?” He can hear things clattering to the floor. She's panicking. “DAVID STRIDER, ANSWER ME!”

“‘M in the studio parkin’ lot,” mumbles Dave, unable to bring himself to upset her further. He groans and tries to rise, only to collapse back to the ground. “Ah. Fuck, Rose, he found me.”

There's a loud, whining static noise, accompanied by a thud. Rose has dropped her phone. He can hear her stumbling to the door, and he can picture it in his mind. His twin sister, normally so stoic and calm, racing to make herself presentable, to drive the twenty-something minute journey to the studio. Now, he worries. “Rose? Uh... Rosie?” He never calls her this. He thinks its too familiar, too affectionate, too _good_ for him to say. But, in this moment, it's different. “You're not mad at me, are you? You're not...” His vision swims, his head aches. “Please don’ be mad at me, Rose. I'm sorry. Rose?”

Another voice answers. It takes a moment for Dave to pin it down as Kanaya. “Dave, Rose is on her way. She's alerted emergency services, and she wants me to stay on the line with you. I know we don't really speak to each other much, and this is certainly an awkward way to acquaint ourselves with one another, but I must do as I am required. Do you wish to tell me what has happened?”

“No. Not really.”

“Now, Dave, you cannot stop talking to me. Rose demanded that I ensure you are awake and alert until the paramedics arrive. Stay with me, Dave, keep talking. What are you thinking about?” Kanaya is worried. Perhaps not as much as Rose, which is understandable, but there's something flattering about a person Dave barely knows being worried for his wellbeing.

Staying awake is getting harder. Sleep is a welcoming relief from the rapid undoing of every bit of progress he's made over the past seven years. Still, the last thing Dave wants is to make Rose upset. “I'm... Oh... Shit. Karkat. He's gonna’ be so fuckin’... Ugh. Don't tell him. If he asks, I have the flu. I'm... hackin’ up a lung... but not, like... serious...” he can feel himself slipping out of consciousness. “I'm sorry, Kanaya. I can't do it.”

“Now, you listen to me, Dave Strider, I refuse to fail at the duty set forth by Rose. I refuse! You will stay awake!” Kanaya's voice breaks. In the back of his mind, Dave wonders if it's for him, or for Rose.

“Hey...” Dave laughs. It hurts to laugh, but he does it anyhow. His chest is too tight; he's too anxious. “...D'ya think Karkat will stop botherin’ me ‘bout not sleepin’ enough? If I... fall asleep, now?” He finds himself smiling when he thinks of Karkat. “He's a great guy. I really do love him.”

“DAVE STRIDER!” Kanaya shouts. It's a startling sound, to hear _the_ infallible Maryam lose her cool. It shocks Dave awake, if only for a moment, to hear her plea. “Dave, this is simply a task I cannot fail. For your sake and for Rose's.”

The words don't make sense, now. They don't make _any_ sense. They're background noise, like the approaching sirens. “Will you tell Karkat I said that? That I love him? I don't say it often‘nough. Mmm... I see some lights, so I'm going to take a nap, now. Head hurts too much. ‘Night.”

On the other end, Kanaya curses. “FUCK YOU, DAVE STRIDER! DAMMIT!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOUNDTRACK DISSONANCE SOUNDTRACK DISSONANCE SOUNDTRACK DISSO—[is trampled to death]


	32. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nothing there to hear  
> you against the hush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another michael guy bowman song. [here's the link](https://bowman.bandcamp.com/track/hush), sorry for doing [gestures vaguely] THAT the last chapter. the useless chapter summary is from the song.

**Unknown Date**  
**Unknown Location**

“Severed tendons, damaged nerves, broken bones. Write that down. Write it down, dammit, —” voices fade in and out. “We're sorry, we're doing all we can, but restoring full function will be—”

“I'm sorry.” Dave speaks to no one in particular, to no _thing_ in particular. He's alone, standing in the middle of a vast expanse of emptiness. “I couldn't do it.” He falls to his knees. “I didn't get any better. I'm just the same, stupid bastard, aren't I? A real piece of shit. Absolute trash. No one would want me, not like this. Not now. Not ever.” He falls forward, pressing his face into his forearms. “I'm sorry.” He repeats it, over and over, until it's not even a word.

When he finishes his bout of self loathing, he looks up. He finds he can no longer stand. Once again, his mind catches up to reality. He pulls himself into his wheelchair, then looks at the person before him. Small, blond, and scared. He knows who it is. How could he not. “You're...”

“Who're you?” The child speaking is missing his front teeth. His face is bruised, and he hugs a headless teddy bear to his chest. “I... I don't like you.”

Of course he wouldn't.

“Well, _kid_ , who are you?” the word feels dirty coming out of his mouth, it leaves a stale taste. “What's your name?”

The mere act of showing some attention to the child triggers an instinctual need for love. Wide, light hazel eyes look upon an older version of the self with heartbreaking eagerness. “My name is Dave Strider! I'm seven! Who are you?”

Dave isn't entirely sure how things work in this realm, this inexplicable headspace he's found himself in. So, he lies. “I'm nobody. Nobody in particular.”

“Well, Mister Nobody Inparticular,” the younger Dave says, sitting, cross-legged, in front of him. “Why are you in that chair?”

“Can't walk.” It's an easy, simple answer.

“That's funny.” It's an answer he knows he would've given as a child.

It doesn't sting any less. “It's not,” he snaps. “You'll end up like this pretty soon, you little shit. You can act as carefree and happy and well-adjusted as you want, but it sucks. It sucks worrying everyone you care about every time you can't breathe right, or every time you can't get your shitty limbs to stop shaking, or whenever you start slurring your goddamned words. It _hurts_.” He wipes away tears, only to see that the child version of himself has scrambled away from him. He sighs. “I'm sorry. Uh. I didn't mean to be mean.”

“Why are you so unhappy, mister?” inquires the child.

Echoing in the nothingness are voices, they break in suddenly, “Oxygen levels are dropping. Someone check his lungs.” “Damaged. Real smoker, isn't he, this guy? Who is he, anyhow?” “I don't know. That Rose Lalonde woman brought him in. I think he's a friend of hers. She seems really—” they fade.

Dave closes his eyes. Nothing hurts, now. His body is finally free of the persistent, throbbing pain that plagues him every day. “I guess I'm just angry at everything.”

“Why?” It's a natural drive for information, one that's brought the child version of himself back, sitting before the older version of himself. “What's there to be mad about?” There's a pause. “My brother bought me ice cream yesterday. He wasn't drinking his shitty juice. He let me get a big cone, one with chocolate ice cream!”

Dave presses his lips together, strangling a sob. “Hey, uh, doesn't he hit you, too?”

“That's not normal?”

“SOMEONE FIX THAT LUNG, DAMMIT!” A voice breaks the silence.

There's a sudden, searing pain in Dave's chest. He doubles over. “Shit.”

“Mister Nobody?”

“He's lying to you,” Dave grunts. “That bastard doesn't love anything but his drugs and his booze and his money. He'd rather you be dead than under his roof.”

“We're losing sensation in the hand.” The voice echoes in his head. His right hand feels like it's being lit on fire. “What are you doing, dammit, fix it! This man needs a functional hand!”

“What makes you happy, Mister Nobody?”

Dave freezes. It's a question he's been asked only once, and never before something he's considered for himself. What makes him happy? “I guess... Karkat does. Karkat makes me happy.” The pain mercifully fades. He pushes against his knees, forcing his body into an upright position. His arms instinctively cross. “I like acting. I like doing stunts. I like knowing that I have a sister who cares about me, even if she's got a freaky way of showing it.” He finds himself smiling.

“What's your sister's name?”

“Rose. You'll meet her soon enough.”

“Who's Karkat?”

“A very good friend. A very, very good friend.”

“You like him?”

“I guess you could say that.” The present Dave rubs the back of his neck. He blushes, but he doesn't feel heat rising to his cheeks. “You said your brother bought you ice cream?” He remembers it, now. He thinks back, to the handful of days he can recall his brother being anything but drunk or high. “That was nice of him. That's not normal, though, is it?”

“No, he usually just trains me to be big and strong.”

Dave winces at the words, even though he knows they've come out of his mouth before. The child is parroting his own thoughts, his past experiences, and it's painful as hell to hear. There's something innate inside of him, a desperate need to reach back in time and show the child version of himself the love he'd been denied. “One day, you'll leave Bro, and you'll find a lot of friends who love you and care about you and want you to be the best person you can be.”

“That sounds nice. Will they have swords, too?”

“Real friends don't hurt each other.” Dave leans forward, supporting his upper body with his elbow. “One day, you're going to be hurt pretty bad, and it's gonna’ be really sucky, but you'll have friends who will come and show you the support you need. You're going to be better because of it. You'll learn things about yourself.”

“How bad will I be hurt? I'm used to that shit.” The child swears unabashedly. At least some things never change.

Dave sighs. For a moment, he forgets. He moves to run his fingers through his hair, only to find himself falling forward. When he catches himself, he snickers. “It'll be pretty bad, and you won't fix it, this time. And I know you're about to say that you always fix yourself up after fights, but this is just gonna’ be one big, dumbass fight that you'll always lose. You'll get better, but not in the ways you expect. You'll get better inside, I guess, but you're gonna’ live the rest of your life pretty differently.”

“What do you mean, Mister Nobody?”

“Look at me!” Dave laughs. He doesn't know why he laughs, he just does. There's nothing actually funny about what he's saying, but there's something amusing about the fact that he's explaining himself _to_ himself. “Can't walk, can't move a thing below my chest, ‘cept for a few toes. My body hates me, and nature wants me dead!” Now, he's full on cackling. “Jesus, it's pretty funny, being alive. I'm spitting on medical science every day I wake up.”

“That sounds sucky.”

Dave's laughter dies down. He shrugs. “I guess it is?” he rubs the back of his neck. “You get used to it, but there are some days that're rough. You'll get through it, though, bud, you're tough.” There's a moment of thought, during which Dave considers to himself: what did he most want to hear as a child? He opens his mouth, and the words flow naturally, “I love you, buddy. You have support from your future self, even if there's no way for you to know it, whenever you are. I know you'll grow up to be better. Kinder.”

There's a bright flash.

* * *

**10 March 2020**  
**Skaia Regional Hospital**  
15 Nightingale Rd.  
Skaia City

Rose Lalonde stares at the blood-covered surgeon in shock. She feels Kanaya's arm around her shoulder, and she involuntary leans into the slight warmth her body provides. It's not as much as anther human body would have, but it's enough to comfort her as she asks, again, “I'm sorry, ma'am, what was it that you just said?”

The woman's frown deepens. “Your friend, the man you brought in, we've stabilized him. He had a few complications, but those have been handled, and you may visit once hes settled. We restored as much function to his hand as we could, but he's lost all sensation in it. I'm sorry.”

Rose's legs give out beneath her. She only stays upright because of Kanaya. “You... Please. He'll be devastated. You can't fix it? You _have_ to fix it.”

“The damage had been done too long ago for it to properly set and heal. If you had brought him in an hour sooner, we might have been able to repair the nerves, but it simply wasn't possible. He has partial control over his hand, and we're certain he can still propel his wheelchair, but he won't be able to perform fine tasks with it. Again, I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Rose mutters. “I think I need to sit down.”

 

Dave wakes to the sound of periodic beeping and a strange sensation of inner calm. His mind is clearer than he can ever recall it being, and his aches and pains are being dulled by painkillers. He moves, trying to sit up, only to have a gentle hand press him back down, against a wall of soft pillows.

“Don't move, my dearest, dumbest brother. You'll hurt yourself. How do you feel?”

“Like I'm drugged off my ass,” Dave answers, honestly. He looks down, to his heavily bandaged and splinted hand. “I can't feel it. That probably ain't good. I'm a little too stratosphered on whatever good shit they're pumping me with to care. You didn't tell Karkat, did you?”

“Against better judgement, both Kanaya and I honored your wish.” Rose's usual look of indifference flickers. “They saved a majority of the function in your hand, but the nerves were too damaged to recover.”

“Whatever.” Dave shrugs. “Karma's a bitch.”

Rose falters. “You're remarkably calm about all this.”

“I had this weird dream when I was out. I spoke to myself, but I was, like, a kid again. Weird as shit, Rose, but it helped. I guess I've realized that there's no point in fighting all of this. It's what'll happen, and I'm just a sand in the big, shitty desert of time.” He wiggles his index and ring fingers, taking great interest in the strange sensation of moving a limb he can no longer feel. “Anything else?”

“If you continue to smoke, you will undoubtedly be dead in the next ten years.” There's no emotion in Rose's voice. It's a statement, detached from reality. “Your childhood asthma has returned. They've given us medication and an inhaler.”

“Well, fuck, Karkat was right again.”

To Dave's surprise, Rose breaks into laughter. “God, Dave, you're such an incorrigible nerd. You wake up after being impaled by your psychotic brother, and all you can think of is your boyfriend!?”

“Sounds about right. Well, I thought about you, too.” Dave twiddles his thumbs. It's less coordinated than before. “Sorry for worrying you.”

“I'll always be worried about you, Dave. It's my unfortunate and grim job as a sister, and I will see it through dutifully.” Rose shakes her head and puts her hands on her hips, looking an awful lot like a disapproving mother. “You should try and stop getting yourself into so much trouble, Dave.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. When can I leave?”

“You'll be kept overnight for monitoring, but you'll be fine to depart by morning.”

Dave nods. “Sounds solid as fuck. Where's the room service menu?”


	33. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The effects of a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i knew i saved this song for something GOOD. oh YEAH. [come get yo daft punk HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Gkhol2Q1og).

**11 March 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios**  
1102 Bayfont Pl.  
Skaia City  
Day 11 of filming

The first thing Karkat notices about Dave is that his shades are different. The rims are silver, not black, and the lenses are slightly less reflective. (Not that most would notice the latter point. It's such a slight difference that Karkat's sure he's the only one who notices.) The second thing he takes note of is the thick bandaging around Dave’s right hand. He moves by looping his thumb between the pushrim and the wheel, but his fingers don't seem to bother interacting with the rest of the chair.

“God, what the fuck thoroughly masticated you and spat you out?”

Dave shrugs. “Don't worry about it.”

“It looks like you stuck your hand through a sawmill, dumbass.”

“Don't worry about it,” repeats Dave, a bit louder. He stops just short of the entrance to his office, with the key fob still dangling from its usual place around his wrist. “Why're you waiting outside of my office, anyhow?”

Karkat's horns flush red. “I was... Kanaya said you had a stomach bug. I wanted to give you uh...” He reaches into his bag, and shoves a box of saltine crackers into Dave's lap. “I've heard that humans feel better when they eat these, especially when they're having problems with their ruminating organ.”

Something hitches in Dave's throat, but he manages to stutter out a response. “Wow. Uh. Thanks. That's really nice of you to think about.” He rubs the back of his neck with his left hand, visibly wincing as he does so. “Hey, so, filming-wise, I'm going to be switching shit up after my little hand surgery. We'll hold off on stunt scenes until later. We're doing some photography work. Stuff for promotional material, y'know?”

“With that cast?”

Dave shrugs. He leans against his left hand to lift himself. “Ah. Yeah. The joys of pressure relief,” he mumbles. “We're working the cast into the film. Some whole story about carpal tunnel. Just roll with it, dude. Get into your primary costume, and I'll tumble into mine.” He claps Karkat on the back as he passes.

In the back of his mind, Karkat wonders if he's been lied to.

 

Karkat has to admit that Dave is good at cleaning up. With his hair sleeked back, and his custom tailored suit in place, he almost looks like a proper noir detective. He's maintained a healthy bit of stubble on his face, and a fake gun (a replica of a Colt Official Police revolver) and its holster is hung from the right handle of his chair. Pinned to his lapel is a shining fake badge—Lieutenant Falman. Perhaps for atmosphere, he's donned an intentionally distressed tie. About halfway down its length, it turns to shredded tatters, and fake blood and grime has been carefully applied in a way that somehow draws attention back up, to his face.

Meanwhile, what does  _he_ get? A damned normal suit jacket, and a “Det. Marseille” badge.

“Lookin’ good, Vantas,” Dave whistles, straightening his tie. He pushes himself upright, smoothing out some of the wrinkles in his white shirt. He reaches out, tugging at the bottom of Karkat's brown overcoat. “Kanaya really knows how to make two idiots look like competent cops, huh?”

“You're the cop,” Karkat shrugs. “I'm just a detective, here. I don't know jack shit about anything to do with law enforcement.”

Dave throws his head back and laughs. “You think I know anything about the law? I'm the poster child for underage corruption.” He pushes his shades up long enough to wink. “By the way, my hand is still a little achy, so go easy on me.”

“You're saying I shouldn't viciously arm wrestle you for the right to live?” counters Karkat.

Dave snickers. “Yes. Exactly.” He wheels over the threshold to the photography staging area.

The backdrop is a solid green, perfect for pasting in whatever later editors and photography experts think is best. The man in charge is an eccentric guy with an almost unnaturally perfect handlebar mustache. He has a touch of a British accent, and he's insistent as hell.

The first photos are of Dave, alone. Karkat understands. His return to the screen is highly anticipated and, with the departure of Manlee, he's the biggest name on the roster. That said, it takes a few minutes for the photographer to adjust his plans. After he's figured out framing, however, it's a pretty fast process.

Instructions are barked out and followed. It's a rapid-fire process, one that involves little movement on Dave's part. What manages to catch Karkat's attention, however, is how awkwardly he's working with his injured hand. He's either holding things too loosely or with too much force. He's uncertain in his movements, often crossing his left hand over to use the right wheel on its own. In the process, at some point, Karkat catches a glimpse of bandaging on his forearm.

Yet, when it comes time for the joint shoots, Karkat says nothing about it. He jokes and carries on with Dave as usual, ribbing him and egging him on.

 

Later, after photography has wrapped and things have calmed down, Karkat approaches Dave's office. A sign hangs from the door, which implores visitors knock before entering. So, he does just that. Then, he waits. A few seconds later, he's greeted by a partially dressed Dave Strider.

The man is clad in a white, short-sleeved undershirt, one that reveals a stitched together gash along his right arm. Upon seeing Karkat, he swiftly tugs on the shirt on the back of his chair, covering the wound. “Oh. Shit. Wassup?”

“I... uh...” Karkat isn't entirely sure what to say. He's used to people lying to him, pulling him around on a string. He can remember multiple counts of being asked on a date, only for the asker to turn around and reveal it was an elaborate prank. He may have been surrounded by friends, but that didn't make him any less of a target for bullies. To think that  _Dave_ would lie to him, though...? “What happened yesterday? Why weren't you on set?”

Dave shifts nervously. He scratches the side of his neck, but two of the four fingers of his right hand fail to move. “I really can't pull anything over on you, can I?”

“It depends on what you were trying to pull,” Karkat mumbles.

_‘So, it was a lie.’_

“It wasn't much of anything. Just a bit of a scuffle.”

Karkat eyes his boyfriend over with a wary look. “What happened to your arm?”

Dave groans. “Fine! Fine!” He moves to raise his hands in surrender, yelping as the fingers of his right inadvertently catch on the pushrim of his chair. He recoils, cradling the injured limb in his lap. “Look, I know we promised to be real honest-like with each other, and I get it, but I... I just didn't want to worry you, okay?”

“WHAT HAPPENED!?” He doesn't mean to yell; he knows how much Dave hates when people raise their voices at him. It's just a natural instinct, a need to be heard.

And, when Dave visibly inches back, Karkat's heart drops. Nonetheless, the man admits to his crime, “Bro found me. We strifed, and he obviously won. I... uh... I'm real sorry I lied. You want the saltines back?”

Part of Karkat is torn between anger over being lied to and amusement over the fact that Dave wants to return the damned crackers. “I didn't mean to yell.”

“I know.” Karkat's trust in Dave has been shaken, but it seems it's not mutual. The look in Dave's eyes is nothing short of pure understanding. “I'm real sorry. I just... I wasn't thinkin’ straight. I could say it's Rose and Kanaya's fault, but I told them to not tell you, so... Uh... I know it won't help, now, but do you forgive me?”

There's something strange about how naive Dave is when it comes to social interactions. It tugs at Karkat's heartstrings, but doesn't lessen the blow of the lies. The troll sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to push back unpleasant memories of deception. “I forgive you, you stupid bastard, but that doesn't mean I completely trust you. If you can lie about this, what else can you lie about?”

Dave nods. He doesn't smile; his expression is implacable. “I get that. I can dig it. Uh... Can I do anything to fix this?”

Karkat sits, settling into the ornate wooden chair across the desk from Dave. “No, you can't. That's not how it works, Dave.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I still love you, and I don't fucking know why, but you... God, Dave, you've lied about something pretty serious, and I'm honestly pissed enough to expel a stream of steady fire from my urine holding organ, but I'm not going to hold it against you. Now, if you insist upon repeating this same juvenile mistake over and over, like a starving mangy growlmammal trying to break through the wall of barbed wire around the cluckbeast enclosure, I will. You understand?”

Dave nods. The words obviously resonate with him, but it's impossible for Karkat to know if he truly digests them. His actions will be the only tell. “Okay. I'm sorry.”

“You've apologized enough. Are you okay?”

“My arm hurts,” says Dave. “I guess that's normal.”

“Yeah, it looks like you got ripped up pretty fucking good, stupid.” Karkat can't bring himself to smile, not now. “Look, don't go and beat yourself up about it, but I need a bit away from you right now. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I'm not ending anything, you understand that?”

“Yes.” Dave has withdrawn. He's answering with the bare minimum.

“Okay.” Karkat rises to his feet. “Is it okay for me to touch right now?”

A shrug. “Sure.”

Karkat places a small kiss on his boyfriend's cheek. He runs his fingers through his hair, forces a smile, and says a few last words before retreating to his trailer. “I love you, Dave.”

“Same.” Dave folds his hands on top of his desk. Only after Karkat leaves does he allow himself the luxury of a few silent sobs.

* * *

 **11 March 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios - Rose's Office**  
Day 12 of filming

When Rose hears the knock on her door, she needn't any further input. She simply knows. “Come in, Dave.” She looks up, just slightly, enough to see Dave enter.

He's tired. That much is obvious in how he moves, slowly and without the usual formality he so often maintains. He doesn't bother to exert the energy required to sit up straight. He's busy carding his hands through his hair. He opens his mouth to speak.

From the corner of the room, literally covered by a long length of fabric, which she is currently sewing together by hand, Kanaya speaks. “I assume that you are here to speak to me about Karkat. He is quite upset at the moment, and I strongly recommend against any action at this time. He is a naturally trusting person, and you have broken that trust. Were it not for the explicit instruction laid out by Karkat, and I quote, to ‘not rip my boyfriend in half with a chainsaw’, be assured that I would have no qualms beating you up.”

Rose snickers. “Eloquently said, dear.”

“I'm glad you think so.” The fabric over Kanaya moves in a manner indicative of a nod.

The primary duty of speaking falls once again to Rose. “Dave, we expressly cautioned you against deceiving Karkat. While we did, indeed, follow your wishes, it was not without reservations. Oh. Oh no. Don't you dare make that face at me, mister. Don't pout at me and rub your hands together like a penniless tanuki. This is _your_ doing, and your responsibility to fix.” Despite her hardass act, Rose ultimately relents upon seeing her brother's pitiful sniffling. “Fine. Shh. Come here, Dave.”

With arms outstretched, she allows her brother a few moments of blubbering in her embrace. Afterwards, when he backs away, she levels upon him a stern glare. “I sincerely hope you understand what you've done wrong, Dave. I know that you've never engaged in a healthy long-term relationship before, so I am speaking to you in this manner to establish with you the appropriate way to handle such matters.”

Dave groans. He's obviously beyond his tearful phase of understanding this scenario. Now, his expression is set. His lips are pressed together in a hard, thin line of understanding. “I lied to him, and he's reasonably pretty damned pissed. I just didn't want him to flip his lid, like he famously does, and now that's come back to bite me in the ass. Or, maybe, somewhere else. Probably the arm, since I can feel that. More appropriate, right?”

Beneath her sheet, Kanaya sighs.

After shushing her girlfriend, Rose nods. “I see you've grasped the gravity of the situation. So, then, what do you propose you do to fix this?”

“Never hide anything from that worrywart bastard again,” Dave states, plainly. “Did I pass the exam, Professor Lalonde?”

Rose wags her finger at Dave. “Oh, now, that's _Doctor_ Lalonde to you. Do you not recall that, of us, I am the only twin to have achieved the prestigious honor of a doctoral degree in psychology?”

“And you're using it to make films?” quips Dave, his brow raised. “Whatever. Thanks for the help, Rose. You're a real shit, sometimes, but I appreciate you, in all your shitty glory. I bow to your superior intellect and grovel. Blah blah blah. Was that enough of a thank you?”

After a moment of pretentious humming, the woman nods. “Indeed, that shall suffice. I prescribe that you allow your boyfriend roughly a day to cool off, and then speak to him about how you feel.”

“God, that sounds fuckin’ painful, but sure.” Dave turns. As he departs, he offers a brief wave. “Thanks again, Rose.”

“Anytime.”


	34. Prelude to the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The surprisingly shy life of a celebrity director, or how to apologize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's a better song to introduce terezi than one from ace attorney? [here's a link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3g6-9riXHs). (technically, the song is _Courtroom Lobby ~ Prelude to the Future_.)

**14 March 2020**  
**Bellies Up Burgers**  
1964 N. Shagohod Blvd.  
Skaia City

Despite the fact that Dave is adamant upon being the one to smooth over the tensions that have since arisen, it turns out differently. The film director drags his feet, failing to say much of anything to his boyfriend over the next few days. The benefit of this is the increased productivity on set. Without flirtatious banter, over ten pages of script are covered in two days. However, after the second day of watching Dave mope around, Karkat's resolve crumbles. He arranges for them to meet at a local hangout for the college students (the college he technically dropped out of to accept a role in this film).

Bellies Up Burgers is a retro-themed place, made to look like a 1950's diner. All the waitstaff are forced to wear little paper hats, and they dress in red-and-white striped uniforms. Upon arrival, Karkat is greeted by a short, Danny Devito-looking man, who speaks with a heavy Bostonian accent. Upon requesting an accessible table for two, he is led to a small window table. The second red leather topped stool is removed, and the menu is slapped onto the grey plastic table.

And it is thus here, in the middle of this admittedly kitschy diner, that Karkat waits. The smell of greasy burgers and flavorful steak fries hangs in the air, heavy, like a fog. The sounds of conversation slowly ramp up, growing in volume as time passes.

Though the meeting was scheduled to occur at 5:30, Dave doesn't show up until 6:00. He's wearing a black sweatshirt, accented by a tiny StriLonde Studios logo on the chest, and dirty, tattered jeans. If Karkat didn't already know who he was, he'd assume Dave had just wandered in off the street. Regardless of what he's wearing, upon arrival, Dave approaches timidly. He sets a bag of luxury, individually wrapped truffles on the table, then scoots them across, to Karkat. “I'm late.”

“You're more than late,” tuts Karkat. He sips on his bottle of Hardliner. “I'll forgive the transgression. You look like shit, Dave.”

“Sorry.” Shaking hands fold atop the table. Dave refuses to meet Karkat's gaze, and his voice belays his deep-set anxiety. “So... uh... Well... Shit. I'm really sorry for everything, Karkat. I... Uh... I've wanted to apologize, but I just... I don't really know how. I can _say_ I'm sorry all I want, right? But it don't mean shit if I don't do something ‘bout it. And—ah—I guess...” his voice trails off, into nothingness.

In truth, there's a part of Karkat that's still angry. It hurts to know that Dave's innate drive to protect everyone prevented him from telling something so important to his own boyfriend. Yet, at the same time, his eyes keep falling on Dave's hand. The troll clears his throat, rubs his hands through his hair, and opens his heart. “How bad was it? I want to know everything, don't pussyfoot around it.”

“Minor surgical complications aside, the fight really fucked over my hand.” As if to demonstrate, the man holds his right hand up. He flexes the thumb and the first two fingers, but the rest remain unresponsive. “Swelling might go down later, but I don't really feel anything but the thumb.”

Karkat buries his face in his hands. His claws are rough against his scalp, but they don't break the skin. “Oh. Shit. Dave.”

“Don't spend too long feeling sorry ‘bout it. Nothing you could've done.” Dave shrugs. He swaps his shades for his plain glasses, then begins to browse through the menu. It's an obvious ploy to avoid eye contact, but Karkat doesn't comment on it. Instead, he allows Dave to continue, “Shit happens. It stills works enough for me to move around. Lucky for me, I'm left-handed.”

An unpleasant silence falls between the two men. Karkat finds himself fidgeting, rubbing his hands together, and flipping through his own menu. He's already picked out his meal, but it's something to do. It's a way to distract himself from an otherwise oppressive lack of discussion. Where, normally, there'd be an air of amicable understanding, there's now a palpable tension. The only communication between them comes in the form of flashes of eye contact and vague gestures.

Finally, after what seems like forever, Dave clears his throat. “I'm... I've been thinkin’ of how to say this real proper, and, uh...” He reaches into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. After adjusting his glasses, he begins to read, “First off, you know this ain't what I'm used to. Feelings? Nah. Fuck that shit. I just don't understand them. But I really, really care ‘bout you, in the gayest way possible, and I know you're real big on that sort of crap. So...” He breathes in.

“I feel like absolute shit about all of this. Like, a cat hasn't just dragged me in, it's mauled me half to death, shat on my face, and smeared that sticky feline waste all over. I'm an emotionally constipated bastard, and you're what? A god of feelin’, almost about the same level as Rose, but I don't think you've got a doctorate. And... Uh...” He squints at the page in his hands, mumbling briefly to himself, before continuing, “I know I shoulda’ told you what happened right when I saw you, but I know how much shit you can flip, and I didn't want to have any worry patties on my hands. So, I guess that'd be selfish. And... uh... flip page...” The minute he realizes he's read his own instructions aloud, he flushes bright red.

He keep going, though. “So, to make up for that lie, I'm gonna trade you a bunch of absolute truths about me. I'll start with somethin’ I know I don't tell you often ‘nough, and it's that I'm absolutely batshit for you. Like. I've never felt like this ‘bout another person before. You're goddamned amazing, truly too qualified for me.” (Now, it's Karkat's turn to blush.) “And, uh, now I guess I'll just start reading off of this list of things I've never told you, but they're embarrassing enough and blackmail material enough to maybe make up for my lie. So, uh...”

“That's... not how this works,” Karkat mutters. At this point, he's more amused than mad. There's something strangely endearing about how Dave's mind works, how he wants to trade his own secrets for Karkat's love. At the same time, it's almost depressing.

Dave is dead set upon this plan, though, and he continues, failing to heed Karkat's commentary. “When I was five, I ate a handful of live worms for a dare, then I got really, really constipated. At multiple points in my life, I've gone backstage during interviews just to shovel a whole bag of beef jerky into my mouth so I wouldn't say something real stupid. One time, when I was fourteen, I went to John's house. He was cleaning his fish tank, and he had this brand new baby goldfish—real cute little bugger—but I was super thirsty, so I just chugged the first glass of water I could find. It was his fish. I lied and I told him the fish ran away, and he believed me.”

“Dave, this really isn't—” _‘Necessary,’_ Karkat wants to say.

The secrets keep coming. As always, when Dave Strider gets something into his head, he's going to see it through. “I thought that tapeworms were actually worms made of tape until I was fifteen, so I refused to use tape, because I thought it'd come alive in my stomach, and that freaked the fuckin’ fuck out of me. John convinced me that, the day I turned twenty-one, a tiny little man would come out of my closet and give me a paper that showed I could legally drink. He also convinced me that spaghetti was made out of murdered worms, but it's too delicious for me to stop eatin’, even if it ain't made of worms. I sometimes piss myself, because I can't control my bladder, so that's not always great. Uh...” he turns the page. “At my twenty-third birthday, John got me drunk and I was thrown in jail for a day because they found me sucking face with one of those cardboard cutouts in the mall, y'know, like the ones at Victoria Secret? I also got a citation when I was twenty-four, and that was because I was trying to crawl inside of a—”

“I FORGIVE YOU, DAVE! DAMN!” Karkat is in hysterics. He can't stay mad at Dave, especially when the man is pouring out every strange, incomprehensible secret he has. “This isn't how it works, but I forgive you. If you trust me enough to tell me... uh... whatever the fuck _that_ free-flowing cascade of stupid was, then I trust you to never pull something so mind-numbingly stupid again. It's a truce.”

“—mail... box...” Dave blinks, slowly, then shreds the note into the tiniest pieces he can manage. At this exact moment, the bone-in wings appetizer comes. Without another word, Dave sprinkles the page onto a plate, rolls a chicken wing over it, and consumes it. “Rice paper,” he explains, “None of that will _ever_ be seen again.”

“Well, Jesus, I hope not,” mumbles Karkat, his face in his hands. He's trying to hide his smile, to look something at least resembling serious, but he simply cannot. Not only has he been handed a full plate of incredibly strange facts about his boyfriend, but said boyfriend just consumed the paper he'd written these facts on. “My... Dave, you're just... What sort of strange cerebral parasites have taken control of you? Or, maybe, they've _always_ been in control of you?”

“Anxiety,” Dave answers honestly. He seems relaxed, now, almost at peace. There's a tentative look of joy on his face, and a newfound lightness in his movements. “You won't... tell anyone any of that, will you?”

“No!” The mere suggestion that he would ever betray Dave's trust so blatantly is almost offensive to Karkat. “Did it completely whiz past your stupid head that this entire meeting is about trust? You trusted me with all of that, so I'll keep it to myself. Unfortunately. For the rest of my miserable little life, I will know that you've had an amorous relationship with a cardboard cut out woman.”

“So, if you ever lie to me, will I get a list of intriguing Karkat secrets?” Dave asks.

“Maybe.” Karkat shakes his head. “I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for that. I'm a stupid, loud fucker, so I don't have many secrets.”

“Fair.” Dave twiddles his thumbs.

Now, with the lighter atmosphere, Karkat figures it's a good enough time to change the topic. “Are you going to press charges?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a glossy business card. He slides it, face down, across the table. “I know a girl. An old ex of mine. She's a real fireball of a lawyer. It doesn't matter if _you're_ the one who killed a motherfucker, she'll get the dead guy locked up.”

With a wary glance, Dave takes the card. He reads the name aloud. “Terezi... Pyrope? A troll?”

“Best lawyer on the East Coast. She lives in Richmond, but I called her up and she said she'd be more than happy to come and defend you. She's... also a pretty big fan. That's how we met, actually. We both talked about how goddamned mind-blowing your dumb films were in high school theater class, and... That's... Forget I said that. Just know that she's one hell of a lawyer. She's not cheap, but she's worth it.”

Dave seems to mull the possibility over. Ultimately, he gives no definitive answer. Instead, as he tucks the card into his pocket, he nods. “You're a good man... Troll? You're a good E.T., Karkat. A solid dude.”

Karkat smiles. He opens his mouth to say more, only to be interrupted by the arrival of their waitress, who eagerly takes their orders. While the troll opts for a burger drenched in gourmet grub sauce, Dave chooses a regular, plain cheeseburger.

The rest of the night is spent laughing and goading, just like before. No love has been lost between the pair, and all has easily settled back into place. The air is fresh; the mood, jovial; and there's no shortage of gentle touches and flirtatious gazes. By the end of the night, with Karkat the only one left sober, the pair return to Dave's home. After further jibing, a reconciliatory outing ends with both men in Dave's bed, nestled against one another.

* * *

 **15 March 2020**  
**StriLonde Manor**  
413 Hayward Pl.  
Skaia City

After dropping Karkat off in the parking lot of Bellies Up Burgers to retrieve his car, Dave returns home. He pulls out the now slightly bent business card and scrutinizes it, debating whether or not to contact the woman. Ultimate, he decides to go through with it. He sends her a video call request, and is immediately greeted to the answering whims of a sharp-horned troll with a wicked grin.

“So, that coolkid has decided to ask me for help?” snickers the troll. Her eyes are hidden behind candy red sunglasses. “To what do I owe this prodigal honor?” She steeples her fingers, much like a certain Gendo Ikari, and raises a brow. “Might it be that you need someone taken care of?”

“You make it sound like you're a for-hire assassin, woman,” Dave deadpans. “Nice to meet you, too, I'm—”

“Dave Strider,” provides Terezi. “No need to introduce yourself. I know you. And don't worry about the details. For a fee, I can do whatever you want to whoever you want.”

After a brief moment of hemming and hawing, followed by a slightly longer moment of uncomfortable lucidity, Dave nods. “How much're we talkin’ ‘bout? ‘Cause I ain't about to shell out big time for somethin’ any two-bit judge will do.”

“You want life in prison with no possibility of parole, or the death sentence? Either one is doable.” Terezi shrugs. To Dave's confusion, she proceeds to eat an entire stick of red chalk while speaking. (This doesn't seem to be a normal troll behavior.) “Look, coolkid, I'm the best at what I do. I'm the prosecutor's worst enemy, because I do my job twenty times better than him. Give me a name, —” she flashes her claws, painted a bright red, “—and I'll have them begging for leniency.”

“Joseph Pierpont Strider,” Dave says, surprising himself with the venom in his voice. “Do you need to know why?” he shifts uncomfortably, not exactly wanting to give out details to a stranger.

To his relief, Terezi shakes her head. “I'll be up from Richmond shortly. That Joseph asshole better prepare himself for a legal spanking.” The camera cuts in the middle of a wild, almost manic cackling on the troll's end.

In the back of his mind, Dave wonders if he just paid a serial killer to straight up murder his own brother. Then again, so what if he did?


	35. Interlude: A Retrospective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the past of two men who, while very similar in the present, were not so alike at one point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and once again i've run out of backlog chapters so we might not have daily updates from here on out. also sorry for the shorter chapter!

**3 December 2010**  
**Rose's House**  
Somewhere in New York State

Dave Strider stands on the doorstep of a massive, isolated mansion. His ratty, unclean clothes are soaked with rain, and his two circa 1980's suitcases’ hard shells are the only thing keeping all of his worldly possessions from being similarly drenched. Behind tape-covered shades is hidden a black eye. Under old jeans are similar bruises. Outwardly, he maintains his usual air of aloof poise. He rings the doorbell, and is greeted by a woman he knows only vaguely.

She's tall, stoic (but in a way Dave isn't quite familiar with) and clad in a long formal dress. Her black lipstick is smeared across her face, and her brows are furrowed. “Ah. David. My son. How nice to see you.” The woman knocks back, chugging from the bottle in her hand. She plays with her puffed out mid-length hair, then steps aside. Tall heels clack against tile flooring. “Rose said you would be coming to live with us.”

“Yup.” Dave brushes past his mother, a woman he barely knows, before making a straight line for Rose's room. He's been given explicit directions, and he follows them, until he comes face-to-face with a sister he knows only through online chat clients. He sets down his bags. “‘Sup, Lalonde?”

Rose shrugs. Her arms fold across her chest, and she tugs at the sleeves of her t-shirt. “If there is nothing of note ‘up’ in your life, why would you assume that there would be anything worthwhile happening in mine? You have arrived at my house, presumably having just ridden multiple buses all the way from Texas, and you greet me with this banal monosyllabic phrase?” Her lips press together, forming an inscrutable line. “I presume you will be studying at Skaia University, come fall? Have you charted out your career path?”

Dave cracks his knuckles and sits down, atop one of the suitcases. He cards through his hair, sending droplets flying. “If you're askin’ me if I know what I'm studying, the answer's a big, fat nope.”

“I expected as much. Change out of those clothes. You look like a ragamuffin,” Rose huffs. She turns her back to her brother, but continues speaking, merely puttering around her room. “I have, of course, chosen to study psychology. I have read online that the head of the department in Skaia is incredibly talented.” She turns, only to find herself staring at her own brother, shirtless. “I... didn't mean for you to change your clothing right here, in the hallway,” she grumbles. “To put it simply, David, what the fuck?”

“You said to change,” counters the eighteen-year-old man. His brows furrow, and lines of confusion cross his forehead. “You don't mean you want me to do it now?”

“I would like for you to extricate yourself from your clearly dirty wardrobe as soon as possible, but not in front of me!” Rose huffs. “I see that our eldest brother has not raised you, so much as neglected to do anything even resembling the act of nurturing a child. Please, go into the bathroom and do that. It's just down the hall.” As she speaks, Rose reaches into her draws. She takes out a pair of lacy pink socks, which she forcibly shoves into Dave's hands. “Mother is peculiar in that she requires all visitors to the home to wear socks when inside. I am aware that you have very little with you, and assume that your socks are nothing short of strips of loosely joined together threads, so I am gifting you a pair of my own. Stretch them out as you wish. Now, —” the woman waves her hand in the general direction of the bathroom, “—please, go and change. You are dripping on the hardwood floor, which we only just had polished.”

Dave, clutching his gift to his chest, (albeit a bit offended by the inherently girly nature of the clothing) shuffles off. He wanders, until he finds a bathroom, which is attached to a room with a piece of paper bearing his name on the door. He assumes this will be his new bedroom, on the opposite end of the hallway from Rose's. The bathroom is remarkably clean, and free of any traces of weaponry or puppets. When he turns the faucet, water comes out; he pauses. For several minutes, he stares at the functional plumbing. Then, quite abruptly, he turns it off. He changes, wadding up his old clothes and throwing them haphazardly onto the floor, before slipping into a fresh pair of jeans and a new shirt. He forces his feet into the socks, muttering unflattering commentary as he does so.

Now, fully dressed, he unpacks. He sets out his few belongings—his laptop, an old blanket, and a few extra pairs of shades—on the bed, and puts away his few articles of clothing. Then, once satisfied with his work, he meanders through the house, stopping only once he encounters his sister again.

“Mother has graciously enrolled you in the high school I am currently at, so that you may finish your education prior to entering college. The paperwork is complete, you simply need to show up.” From where she sits, on a wrought iron bench in the middle of a warm greenhouse, she quirks her brows. “Did you have any friends at your old school?”

“Friends are for losers and idiots,” Dave shrugs. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a carton of cigarettes, only for a knitting needle to promptly impale it. “What the shit, bitch?”

“Don't call me that, first of all,” states Rose, her voice unnervingly flat, “Secondly, it seems that you are severely stunted emotionally. We will have to work on this. You will not and _cannot_ smoke inside the house.”

Dave, cradling a few ruined cigarettes, whines. “We're in a greenhouse,” he says, gesturing all around himself, “This ain't inside.”

“We are _inside of_ the greenhouse,” Rose hums, returning to her knitting, “That means that we are technically within the confines of a building. Thus, you will not smoke here. If you wish to pollute yourself with those carcinogenic products, please do so in the back yard.” She eyes her brother warily, shakes her head, and tugs at a length of tangled yarn. “Your knuckles are raw, David, what were you doing just prior to coming here?”

“Beating up some dumbass.” The man shrugs. He studies the angry red skin on the back of his hands, feeling a twisted sort of pride at his recent victory. “He tried to upcharge me on these cigarettes, right? I didn't like that too much. So, I asked him why he was doin’ that. Bastard threw a few punches, but I won. I got these for free, and now you've gone and fuckin’ skewered them, like cheap ground beef. Thanks, Lalonde.”

“You're aware that, technically, your last name is also Lalonde, right?”

“I don't really care.” Another shrug. Dave buries his hands in his pockets and looks outside, through the ice, which frosts the glass panes of the building. He shakes his head. “Fuck this shit. I'm going outside and smoking.”

“Wonderful. Please hesitate to invite me to join you.” Rose doesn't look up from her work when she speaks, nor does she watch her brother leave.

* * *

**3 December 2011**  
**Versoi Soldat Middle School - Gymnasium**  
125 E. Durham Rd.  
Landsend County

A young troll finds himself, once again, being held, upside-down, by his ankles. His oversized sweatshirt has fallen down, covering his face, and he flails wildly. “Fuck all of you! Fuck this! Put me back down!”

Claws dig into his ankles, and a low, rumbling chuckle greets his pleas. “What are you reading about, Vantas? Oh. That Strider guy. What, are you gay for him?”

“I just like the movie!” Karkat growls. “Let me go, Brando, you assface!”

There's a loud thud. After a few minutes, Karkat wakes to a dull ache at the back of his head. He finds himself laying on the wood floor, arms spread out at his sides, with the torn news article resting atop his stomach. Towering above him is the gym teacher—a burly, mustached human, Mr. Andrews.

“How long've you been on my floor, kid?” asks the man, his handlebar mustache bristling. “Class is going to start soon. Should I take you to the nurse? Your nose looks kind of messed up.”

Karkat sits up. When he scratches his nose, his claws come away flaked in dried blood. When he looks down, he finds the substance has also stained his new sweatshirt. “Fuck.”

“Hey, now, don't say that. That's a bad word. Do you need help?” The gym teacher offers his hand out, to help the young troll up.

Karkat refuses. He gathers his wits about him, buries his hands in his sweatshirt pocket, and skitters away, silent and seething.

 

 **3 December 2011**  
**Grubland Restaurant**  
8302 Mason St.  
Landsend County

“Order up for table thirteen,” Karkat calls, ringing the bell on the sill of the window between the kitchen and the main area of the restaurant. He sets out the freshly prepared food—a fluffy modified falafel, seasoned with pickled garlic and flakes of sopor spice. He wipes his hands on his now-ruined sweatshirt, smearing bright green garnish sauce onto the light grey fabric.

“Please don't ruin the sweatshirt any more than you already have,” his father sighs, trudging into the room. He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair, which is just as wild as his son's. “Do you have a shirt on underneath it, my little crab?”

Heat rises to Karkat's cheeks at the mention of the nickname, though he knows that everyone around him knows about it. “Yeah.”

“I'm going to the store to pick up some emergency supplies. We're really busy tonight, so I'll drop by the house and throw that sweatshirt into the wash. Hopefully all the stains come out.” Despite the man's claws, which are longer and sharper than most (and maintained as such for the ease of using them during food preparation) his touch is gentle. He unties the back of the apron on Karkat, then throws the protective garment over his broad shoulders. “Go and change. There's a spare sweatshirt in my office.”

Karkat nods. “Thanks, Crabdad.”

“No problem!” The man smiles, revealing sharply pointed teeth. There's a flash of a thumbs-up. The man turns and wanders off, whistling the tune of some unknown troll pop song from the 80's as he departs.


	36. She Came in Through the Bathroom Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dave hires a very questionable pseudo-prosecutor, then distracts himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another beatles song, [here's the usual link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVv7IzEVf3M)! we're getting to the end of this fic, y'all! thank you so much for all the love and feedback!

**16 March 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios - Dave's Office**  
1102 Bayfont Pl.  
Skaia City

Karkat sits beside Dave, his ass sinking into the sad, overstuffed cushion of a fancy folding chair. His arms are situated firmly across his chest, though he squirms uncomfortably in his over-starched black suit. “Why are we here, and not at your house?” he asks, brows raised. “What's the fucking point of diverting this entire shitfest to the studio, rather than being a sensible goddamned person and having Terezi meet us at either my house or Kanaya's?”

“Well, first of all, my house is under some pretty undope bomb watches right now, so we ain't meeting there,” Dave says, quite plainly.

Karkat rolls his eyes. He tips the chair back, onto two legs, and yawns. “That's not what I asked, and you know it, shit-for-brains.”

“Well, I figured meeting with a potential serial killer would be better done here, where we've got the luxury of cameras.” As if to demonstrate, Dave gestures to the shining black dome on the ceiling, near the center of the room. It's about the size of a golf ball, and its positioning is such that it's just off-center enough to be annoying.

“Terezi's not a serial killer, dumbass,” Karkat smirks. Then, he pauses, quickly adding to his statement, “At least, she wasn't when we were engaged in a flushed relationship.”

“And when was that?”

“About ten years ago...” Karkat sighs. “Okay. You win.”

Dave moves to speak, only to be startled by the sound of someone tapping at the singular window of the room. When both men turn, they're greeted by a freckle-faced troll.

“Oh, Karkles, you're here, too!?” Terezi's voice is loud enough to be heard through the glass. She blows onto the window, fogging its surface, so that she can draw little hearts on it.

Karkat buries his face in his hands.

Dave opens the window, through which Terezi then climbs.

The female trolls tumbles forward, over the file cabinet, then dusts herself off. She grins, her smile toothy and wild, far beyond the predominantly docile nature of Dave. She has a plastic folder clutched to her chest and, upon sitting down, she slams it onto the table. When flipped open, it reveals itself to be a collection of old cases, each bearing a massive red “SOLVED” stamp across the front. “So, you're in need of my skills?”

“That depends. You're giving me this major murderer vibe, dude. I mean, I ain't too opposed to that, to be real, but I'd like to know upfront and clear what I've gotten myself wrangled into. I'm a crazy, buckin’ bronco, wrapped in the pronged and prickly lasso of whatever sort of dubiously legal activities you're intendin’ upon performing.” From his pocket, Dave pulls a tomato-shaped stress ball. He absentmindedly squishes it around in his right hand, though two of his fingers still refuse to cooperate. “And how much will I be payin’ you?”

“Let's start with the money.” Terezi leans back, propping her feet onto the desk (much to Dave's visible chagrin). She licks her lips, her black tongue tipped by a speck of teal, her blood color. “I didn't know you were shacking up with my sweet little Karkles, so I'll cut you a deal. Depending on how deep the case goes, you're setting some fancy ganderbulbs on anywhere in the ballpark of five-hundred grand to a million. I'll give you half off. Just for kicks, and a few autographs.”

“Would you revoke those mighty temptin’ terms if I asked you to get your feet off of my desk? You're dropping dried mud all over my sweet, sweet notes...” Dave mumbles, his voice surprisingly soft.

“Uh... Yeah?” Terezi answers in a manner that suggests she thinks that the answer should be obvious. She cocks her head to the side, raises a singular brow above the red lenses of her glasses, and snickers. “You'd get a forty percent discount after that.”

“I'll take that ten percent reduction,” is Dave's hurried reply. When Terezi's black combat boots are removed, he seems to relax a bit more. He reaches into his bag, drawing forth a thick manila envelope. Red string binds it closed and, after a moment of fumbling with the knot, it falls open. Photos tumble out, showcasing injuries ranging from small bruises to deep, long gashes. They span back years, perhaps even a decade. “Here's my evidence.”

“Great. You can keep that. I don't need it.”

“You'll need it to do just about fucking anything in a court of law, won't you, Terezi?” inquires Karkat.

Now, Terezi cackles. “Oh, my dear, sweet, innocent Karkles,” she tuts, leaning across the table. She closes the distance, until the her coffee-scented breath wafts in the air around a thoroughly befuddled Karkat Vantas. “Evidence is quite easy to create. If I wanted to stick to just what Mr. Strider has, we wouldn't be getting anywhere! No, we need new evidence.” As if to demonstrate, Terezi produces a laminated page, upon which is a list of various things.

Both Dave and Karkat lean over to study it, exchanging hesitant glances throughout their examination.

STANDARD SERVICES, FREE! >:D  
Planting of evidence, including but not limited to illegal drugs*, unlawfully possessed weapons, doctored photographs, and falsified witness testimony.  
Fraternizing with the enemy legal team, low-budget bribing of the judge, pressing for truly outrageous sentences.  
*Depends on what drug you want me to plant. I'm not going to plant anything hardcore for free, you know how it is. That's just too expensive.

PREMIUM SERVICES, PRICE BASED ON SITUATION  
Planting of hardcore drugs, high-budget bribing of the judge, after-trial snacks, intimidation of contradictory witnesses.

After busying herself with filing her nails, Terezi inquires, “So, we're going to be slamming the legal book on your brother? You want to tell me why? It's not required.”

“I'd rather not, really,” Dave shrugs. “You're willin’ to take this on?”

“What charges do you want?” Terezi's grin has somehow grown wider. She's excited. Sweat is beading at her brow, and she files with almost feverish energy. “Death sentence? Expatriation? Are you worshipers of the human equivalent of the Sufferer, because I can even get him excommunicated. That's just a free bonus.”

Dave laughs nervously. He rubs the back of his neck. “Nah. Uh. Nothin’ like that. Just want the bastard locked up for the rest of his stupid life, alright? And we're atheists, so no excommunication.”

A pout replaces the smile on Terezi's face. “Oh. That's boring as fuck. Whatever. I can do that for you. What's the timeframe?”

“As soon as you can, preferably,” both Karkat and Dave say, in unison.

“Then consider it done!” Terezi stands, scoops up her file, and proceeds to exit through the window.

Dave and Karkat, meanwhile, exchange a long, concerned look.

“Was she that weird when you dated? I mean, it ain't a bad thing. I kind of like it. She's passionate ‘bout somethin’, good for her, but... uh... Weird as shit.”

Having managed to somehow endure two years of dating Terezi, Karkat nods. “Oh, she's always been a bit off the usual goddamned standard. Refusing to enter a building through the door, like a reasonable fucking member of society, is new, though. It might have something to do with her new girlfriend, Vriska. I wouldn't know. We don't really keep up with each other well.”

A slow, purposeful nod serves as Dave's reply.

* * *

 **16 March 2020**  
**Karkat Vantas' Apartment**  
Golden Hill Tower, Room 814  
915 E. Windward St.  
Eastern Skaia City

“Stop waving that umbrella around in my face, Dave, you're going to take out a goddamned ganderbulb,” Karkat growls, swiping furiously at a waving hook-handled umbrella. “What are you even attempting to do with that?”

“Not much,” Dave shrugs. He loops the handle over a knob, and pulls open an out-of-reach cabinet above the counter. “Oh. You're like Rose. You always hide all the really nice shit, huh? Keep those fancy wine flues out of the grimy little hands of nasty little boys, like me?”

After slamming the door closed, Karkat rolls his eyes. It's getting harder to keep a straight face. “First of all, you uncultured goddamned troglodyte, that's a full set of genuine Waterford crystal wine glasses. They're in there for special occasions, and you crashing my apartment just to keep your dumb little mind off of hiring my sketchy-as-fuck ex to deal with your older brother is _not_ such an event.”

“I think I'm offended by that,” Dave tuts. He wags his finger around, like a disapproving parent, complete with his free hand on his hip. It appears as if he's going to say something on-topic, only for him to suddenly shift gears. “Is it raining out?”

“It wasn't when...” Karkat pauses. He trots over to the flowing curtain, which he's taken to hanging before the balcony's sliding door, and pulls it back. “Oh. Fuck. My car window was open.”

Dave tilts his head to the right, rocking a bit back and forth in his chair. “You do know you have functional legs, right? You can just toodle on downstairs, mosey on out to your car, and close them damn windows, huh?”

“I  _could_ ,” counters Karkat, “But I don't  _want_ to.”

From Dave, a shrug. “Suit yourself. You're the one with sensation in your ass, so I don't give a shit if your car seats are soggy.”

“How about this?” proposes Karkat, leaning in close. His hands hover over the wheels of Dave chair, and, upon receiving a slight nod, he lets them lower all the way. “I kick your dumb ass out of my apartment, by way of the balcony?”

“Oh Romeo, my bromeo, that's not very homeo,” Dave deadpans.

Karkat backs up, brows furrowed. “I have no idea what you were even trying to say with that.”

Dave's composure breaks. He bursts into a fit of rare, unrestrained laughter. “Oh, fuck me, I don't know, either. I was just spoutin’ some bullshit.”

“And do you not regularly just go ‘spoutin' some bullshit’ all the time, anyhow?” inquires the troll, emphasizing his words with air quotes.

Dave grins. He ignores the question. “I was talking to Jade the other day. She said she could print me a cool sort of cast for my hand, so I stop getting my stupid, shitty fingers everywhere.”

By now, Karkat has wandered into the kitchen area. He busies himself with the preparation of dinner, and is now carefully zesting some lemons. For what, exactly, he isn't quite sure. He'll just wing it and make something with whatever he has in his fridge, but he's in the mood for something sour. “Oh. Shit. I didn't ask what you wanted to eat. Not that I really care.”

“Oh, I  _know_ you care, you sentimental idiot,” Dave elbows Karkat in the thigh. “I don't give a damn. You're the master chef, my man, brew up whatever you think of.”

Karkat nods. Setting aside the freshly prepared lemon flavoring, he begins browsing through the available ingredients on hand. He doesn't exactly feel like going through the pouring rain to get food, nor does he want to wait in line at the perpetually busy local grocery store. “I have salmon. That okay with you?”

“I'm salivating so much my mouth is a waterfall.” Dave throws his arm up, so that it lands on the counter. A facetiously suggestive look crosses his face, “Filet me like that damned fish, dude.”

“My God. I'm divorcing you. Right now.”

“You can't divorce what you haven't put a fuckin’ ring on, dumbass.”

 

Later, after the rain has stopped, and one can see the stars through sporadic breaks in the low-hanging clouds, two men lay in the same bed. Both stare at the ceiling, watching a singular fly as it buzzes around the burnt out overhead light. The bedroom window is open, and a cool but humid breeze billows through thin grey curtains.

“It's nice to know that someone has my back,” Dave yawns. He reaches out, lazily brushing his fingers through Karkat's hair. There's a small smile on his face, a look of unprecedented peace. “No matter how all this shit with Bro goes, it's nice to know that you're here for me. I mean... I know all my friends are, but there's somethin’ different ‘bout you. It's special, corny as it sounds. It's, like, more real, I guess.”

“More palpable?” suggests the troll, trying to suppress his natural urge to emit a low purr at the pleasant sensation of Dave's fingers against his scalp. “I don't think anything will happen. Terezi's one crazy ass shitlord. If she's going to do something, she'll overdo it, especially when it comes to the law.”

“Oh, totes, I get that vibe.” There's a pause, followed by a hesitant, soft question. The tone it's spoken in is innocent, like a child's, but fearful, “How long do you think it'll last?”

“What? Us?”

“Yeah.”

Karkat sighs. He gently swats away Dave's hand. (He can't possibly concentrate on such a serious topic with the distraction.) He rolls over, so that he's fully facing Dave. “Honestly? I'd be down for it lasting forever. The rest of our mortal lives on this inhospitable space rock. What about you?”

Dave responds without hesitation. “Honestly? Same.”

“‘Same’!? I pour the blood from my still-pumping circulatory regulator, and all you can fucking say is ‘same’!?” In spite of his words, Karkat laughs. He musses his boyfriend's hair, grinning, “You're such a goddamned dork, Dave.”

“Yeah, but I'm  _your_ dork,” counters the blond.

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Shut up. It's getting late. If we want to function on a higher level than a salt rock in a cup of water, we should get to sleep.”

“Yeah, fuck, you're right.” Rough, calloused hands brush against Karkat's face with unparalleled gentleness. They reach, wrapping around his shoulders, and are shortly followed a peck of a kiss on his forehead. “Night, you grouchy little bastard.”

“Goodnight, to the biggest tool the world has ever known,” the troll answers. He rolls over once more, so that his back faces Dave, and nestles against the man's body heat. In a small corner of his mind, he wonders how he'd never considered dating a human before. They're so warm, and their skin is far softer than that of a troll. A disadvantage? Perhaps. But they're much more pleasant on the senses. Or, perhaps, he's simply biased at this point.


	37. Kuchikamizake Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions about the future lead to ambitious plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a radwimps song, from _Your Name_ ( _Kimi no na wa_ ). [here's that link!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wt_zQ9YOZyo)

**17 March 2020**  
**Kanaya Maryam's Home**  
2012 Bottle St.  
Dunwall County

“Have you ever considered just how large our home is, Dave?” Rose sits down, across the quaintly sized table in Kanaya’s dining area. She cradles a steaming cup of tea in her hands, and there’s a familiar, thoughtful look in her eyes. “It’s simply so large, so desolately empty. We have at least twenty empty bedrooms, and we simply don’t live the same lifestyle as before.”

Dave, somewhat taken aback by the sudden intrusion, looks up. After a few minutes of fighting with his partially paralyzed right hand, he manages to back his chair up. When the wheels squeak, he winces. “Nope. Haven’t really. Why?”

“I, personally, would love to stay here, with Kanaya. I adore this little house, and the simplicity of it all. I have lived in mansions most of my life. They’re simply not exciting.” Rose shrugs. “Would you want to keep the house?”

“Not really.” Dave frowns. “Shit, Rose, do what you want, but I physically can’t handle that whole house on my own. And it’s not like Karkat’s place works for me.”

“You have ample money to simply rent or purchase a new place, should Karkat give his blessings.”

There’s a brief, disjointed moment in Dave’s thoughts. Framed by years of neglect, he sees himself, years ago, wanting nothing more than a safe home. “We could put that old place to use.”

Rose laughs. “Are you suggesting we rent out rooms?”

Dave, in a voice so serious it surprises even him, counters, “No, I’m saying we donate it. I mean, what the shit are we doing with all of our money. What we don’t spend on films, we just kind of burn on useless crap.”

“Oh.” Rose pauses. She taps her chin, and a smile slowly works its way onto her face. “To whom? The Nitram Foudation?”

That’s a possibility Dave hadn’t considered. Shortly after his injury, the Nitram Foundation had stepped in to help. They’d given him resources to cope with his new life and a peer support group, though he rarely used the latter. “Maybe,” he muses aloud, “I don’t know. I’d have to think about it, and it’s also your place, so I’d want you to toss in a few clay pigeon ideas.”

“Well, what else were you considering?” There’s a radiating aura of understanding about Rose’s person. She simply knows her brother too well. “I know the look you’re wearing right now. It’s that deep, thoughtful one. What’s on your mind?”

“I just figured it could serve as a place for kids. Ones like me, I guess, raised by people who had no business rearing another human life.”

“Check the legality of it,” urges Rose. “I think that’s also a splendid idea.”

Dave smiles. It’s small, slight expression, one of tentative hope. For once, things are beginning to fall into place. His life is going smoothly, and he feels ready to take on the world. There’s an energy in him, a sort of burning, excited passion to embrace the future, something he’s never before experienced.

* * *

**18 March 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios**  
2203 Bayfont Plaza  
Skaia City  
Day 19 of filming

The piercing snap of a clapper board brings filming to a halt. Everyone relaxes, dispersing from their set places. The two people at the center of the scene—who had, just moments ago, been aiming fake guns at one another—laugh. Beneath the unusually warm sun, both men remove their overcoats. The carefully tailored outfit components are hung on a rack, located just outside of a the filming area, then the wearers take a seat at a table made of little more than stacked wooden boxes.

“That was, what? Scene...?” Karkat begins.

After flipping through his script, Dave supplies an answer. “Thirty. I don't usually do a film in order, but it's just more convenient at this point to do so. We have to wait until Jake is back from his vacation with Dirk to film his stuff. I'm sure they're off, boning it up in the Caribbean. I don't really give a fuck.” With a shrug, the blond scoops up a can of Coca-Cola. It's the original, standard flavor. Red can, white text, as one would expect. (Conversely, Coca-Cola Acid is a separate flavor, formulated just for trolls. While some humans like it, Dave finds it too bitter to enjoy in any capacity.) “How attached are you to your apartment?” he then inquires, in a complete non-sequitur.

Karkat, nursing a bottle of lemon-infused water, shrugs. He pops the cap open and squirts some of the liquid into his mouth, not bothering to use the designated mouthpiece. “Huh? Oh. Not really all that attached. My rent runs out in, uh... Let me, —” he pulls out his phone. After a few seconds of flipping, he concludes, “—about two weeks. I'd rented there to go to college, but you've corrupted me, and I dropped out to join this film. Honestly, I was planning on just going back to Landsend after all of this shit had ended.”

There's a beat of discomfort, followed by a small frown. Dave folds his hands on top of the wooden boxes, only to let forth a short yelp. “Shit! Splinter!” He plucks the offending shard of wood from his left hand without hesitation, then continues, “Really? Oh. Uh... What'd you... Uh... What ‘bout now? What're you plannin’?”

“Until the filming is wrapped, Kanaya said I could stay with her. Mind you, that was prior to you getting involved in my life, like a stubborn intestinal parasite, so I'm not sure how valid that kind gesture is, now. I'd have to sleep in the room you're in, but I'm going to go out on what might just be the most solid limb in existence and say that neither of us would really give much of a fuck about that. So, I guess I probably _will_ fucking end up bumming out at Kanaya's.” To close his bottle, Karkat simply smacks the side of his forearm against the pop-up top. His brows furrow, then rise, then furrow again. “After that? I'm actually not sure what I'll do.”

“Would you want to live with me?” Dave asks, his face bright red. His gaze is hidden behind his shades, but it's obvious that he's not looking at his conversational partner. He wrings his hands together. His right leg shakes, rattling the wooden prop boxes. “I mean, not to be too upfront. If you don't want to, we don't gotta do that. Whatever you want, dude. I'm just... suggestin’... Uh...”

“At the mansion?”

“Nah. We're thinking about abandoning that hell. We'll donate it. I was thinking we could rent a nice, accessible apartment, or maybe get a nice little ranch house. Raise some cows in our backyard, become actors slash milk tycoons. Expand our horizons, maybe dip our toes into the rivetin’ world o’ fine cheese pressin’. We'll live the ‘merican dream, get ourselves a dog and one and half kids, or whatever.” Without really thinking about it, Dave musses his hair. “Ah... I'm... Am I rambling?”

“Are you implying that there's ever a time when your mouth isn't constantly emitting a noxious cloud of incomprehensible bullshit?” Karkat asks, smirking.

Dave whines. “Aw, c'mon, man, I'm tryin’ my best to be sincere-like right now.”

The troll sighs. He scratches at his neck. “Honestly? That sounds pretty nice. I'm not sure I'd really want to live around here, though. I'd like to go back home, be closer to Dad. Helping him with the restaurant is always good stress relief, at least for me. So... I don't know. Would you and Rose be okay living apart?”

Dave's answer isn't immediate. Rather, it's preceded by several minutes of visible confusion. He mumbles to himself, though Karkat can't quite figure out what he's saying. And, eventually, he nods. “Honestly? I don't know. I've only ever lived with my bastard brother and my sister. It'd be a new adventure, a new bull to wrangle. Grab that shit by the horns and do a fancy tango with it.”

Karkat shakes his head. He'd love to be able to say he knows Dave well enough to innately understand what his oft-unrelated commentary means, but he doesn't. That's not a point that's been reached yet. Sometimes, he can comb through the metaphors and find a meaning; this is not one of those times. “Is that a yes?”

“Sure.” Dave tugs at his tie, loosening it slightly. “What's it like, Landsend?”

Shrugging, Karkat takes a moment to consider the question. In the meantime, he takes out his lunch. It's little more than a ham sandwich, but that's all he really needs.

The troll finds himself splitting hairs, trying to separate his personal experiences in school from what the community is really like. As a whole, he's always found the adults to be reasonable, kind people. Hell, now that he thinks about it, most of his childhood tormentors seem to have mellowed out with time, save for a fraction of a handful. He takes a few bites of his food before answering, “It's nothing like here,” he begins.

Dave offers a short snort of laughter. “It ain't a city. I don't expect it would be.”

“I wasn't _done_ , twatbastard,” Karkat grunts. To an outsider, it would sound annoyed, almost volatile, but Dave knows it's all in jest. “It's a close-knit place. Everyone knows everyone, and we all grew up together. It's not a backwater hick town, but it's definitely not as diverse as here. I'd shit myself if there was something readily available that was already accessible, to be honest. It's an older community.

“And I'm talking age and infrastructure wise. We have a grand goddamned total of maybe three stoplights, and most of the houses were made in the early 1900's. It's not as if everyone is going to come for your blood with pitchforks and torches, but it's not a place new people usually move to.” Now that he's said this, Karkat can remember exactly one person who actually moved to Landsend County as an newcomer. A quiet, eccentric man, known as WV, who was quickly accepted into the community. “It might take a while, but everyone will come around. You'll probably be considered a little weird for a while, but you _are_ weird, so I don't see an issue.”

Dave shrugs. “Sounds decent to me. I mean, budget ain't an issue. Don't matter to me how much it costs to fix a place up, we'll manage.”

“Well, then, let's look at what's on the market.” A small smile crosses Karkat's face, and a pleasant warmth settles in the pit of his stomach. Simply thinking about this new possibility—a future of living with his long-time idol—is enough to make his horns glow a soft red. He offsets this by rapidly scarfing down the rest of his sandwich, then patting Dave on the shoulder as he passes, “Let's get back to filming. Faster we get this shit done, the sooner I can go home and water my withering succulents.”

“You do realize they might just be dyin’ ‘cause you keep watering them, right?” smirks Dave.

Though he can't stop the smile from appearing on his face, Karkat ignores the snide commentary.

* * *

**22 March 2020**  
**Potential House #4**  
192 Smithfield Rd.  
Landsend County

By Saturday, the heat wave has ended, and a slight chill has settled over the area. Nonetheless, two men stand before a quaint little home. It's split-level brick abode, with a vinyl sided two car garage attached to its eastern side. Three steps lead to a friendly-looking little porch, which spans the entire width of the home, and a makeshift ramp allows access for Dave. Though the seller of the place has allowed the pair to view it, they're not currently around. The mere fact that they're willing to let two strangers into their unlocked home speaks volumes about the area.

“It's cute, I guess,” Karkat shrugs. His arms are folded, and he's hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to stay warm. His breath fogs in front of him. “What do you think?”

“Not digging those steps, but we can fix that.” Dave shrugs. He wheels forward, studies the stairs, and shakes his head. “Yeah. These bastard's are gettin’ voted off the island.” He backs up, then hesitantly ascends the ramp. Once settled, back on solid ground, he shudders. “That's also going.”

“Oh, just shut the fuck up and get inside. I'm freezing my tender tentabulge off,” Karkat grumbles. He rushes for the door, holding it open for Dave, before taking in the surroundings.

Save for the tiled kitchen, a well maintained hardwood floor stretches through the entire house. The living room is a spacious, open concept space, with a row of bookcases lining the back wall. According to the listing's information online, this home has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an office.

“Is this wallpaper?” Karkat steps forward. He prods the floral print wall, baring his teeth after a moment. “Yeah. It's peeling.”

Behind the troll, the floor squeaks softly as Dave approaches. “Looks like the nursing home's communal underwear,” he says, his expression unreadable. “C'mon. Let's look around a little more.” He gestures for his boyfriend to follow, but he doesn't bother waiting. Instead, he pulls up to the kitchen counter. The surface is roughly level with his shoulders, and he adds a note to his notepad. “Redo the kitchen.”

Karkat, meanwhile, studies the master bedroom. There's a perfectly accessible bathroom attached, replete with a step-in shower and double vanity (with one side lower than the other). The wall covering isn't quite as atrocious as the main living space's, being that it's little more than a coat of neutral beige paint. “The bedroom doesn't need any work.”

“Well, that's a plus.” Dave pulls up beside Karkat, gently shoving him aside to see into the room. “Oh. Huh. Yeah. This is pretty dope. We could make an offer on this place.”

“What about the remodeling?”

Dave wiggles his fingers, humming thoughtfully, for a few seconds before responding, “We can buy it within the next month or so, and have all the remodeling and shit done by the time filming wraps, maybe even a little bit sooner. If that's somethin’ you're up for.”

“That sounds like a reasonable plan. We can talk about it.” Karkat nods. “So, this is a definite keeper?”

“I couldn't even enter the other three, so this is a real plus.” Dave lets his posture loosen, so that his shoulder leans against the doorframe. “Yeah. Sure.” He licks his lips. His eyes peer over the tops of his shades, and he smiles. “Bein’ real, here, I'm gettin’ a little excited ‘bout all this, dude. It's something new, something fresh. And, to sound really gay about it all, the best part is you'll be with me.”

Karkat instinctively moves to ‘aw’, only to cover it with a loud, forced sneeze. “Yeah, that sounded _super_ fucking gay, you idiot. But I'm sort of feeling the same way.”


	38. Somebody Super Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life at the studio continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's a link to the song!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2iHPnmAT0o)

**23 March 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios - Dave Strider's office**  
Day 23 of filming

Dave arrives early on Monday. He plans on reviewing his notes and setting up the green room, but the more important of these tasks is the former. Thus, upon arrival, he heads for his office. After a pleasant weekend, half of which was spent house-hunting with Karkat and the other half relaxing at Kanaya's house, he's feeling remarkably light. He hums to himself as he meanders down the halls, sometimes dropping in the words of the song he's serenading himself with.

 _“Little Eddie Mitty, born in Jersey City,”_ he parks before the hardwood door. _“Started singing when he was five.”_ He opens the door, and immediately blurts out a loud swear. “FUCK!”

Before him, dangling carelessly from an old pull-up bar, (a leftover from before Dave's injury) is a certain Terezi Pyrope. Upon seeing her client she smiles and waves, as if this is a standard business procedure. “You should really remember to lock that window, Mr. Movie Man.” She grabs onto the bar, then flips herself around. “I'm just dropping in to give you an update. Your brother's case is looking _pretty tight_ , if I do say so myself.”

Still breathing heavily from the shock, and hunched over himself, Dave nods. “Ugh... Okay. You care to elaborate, or you just gonna leave me hangin’?”

“Turns out that douchebag actually has a criminal record so long it's almost admirable. Of course, _I_ don't admire it. In fact, I'm horrified that you're related to such a rapscallion, but whatever. The point is that he ducked parole decades ago, and he was violating that the entire time you were living with him! So, there's one charge. I didn't even need to plant anything on him, he showed up to his hearing loaded with drugs.”

Wheeling up the coffee machine, which Terezi is standing beside, Dave nods. “Yeah. Sounds like him. That asshole is—FUCKIN’ OUCH!” Having been slapped on the wrist by a white cane, Dave withdraws his left hand. “What the shit, woman!? Are you _tryin’_ to kill me!?”

“I'm not done. This case was actually absurdly easy, so I'm bumping down your cost. Congrats, buddy, you get that 10% discount back. Anyhow, I should get back to the courthouse before Vriska runs out of ways to stall the judge. Peace out, sausage biscuit.” Flashing a peace sign, she sprints to the window. Despite a graceless tumble out, and a hard hit on the ground, she dusts herself off and continues her dash.

In the back of his mind, Dave wonders if she ran the entire eleven block journey to the studio. After a few minutes of considering this, he decides that it's a likely scenario, and turns his attentions back to preparing for the upcoming day.

When he opens his calendar, he is promptly reminded of the incoming field trip. The local elementary school had asked to tour the grounds as part of their social studies class for the third graders, and who would Dave be to deny children a chance to learn at America's best independent film studio?

 

The buses of students, forty total, arrive around 10. Everyone is greeted by Rose, and the schedule has already been nailed down. While Rose keeps the kids busy, filming will continue as normal. Around noon, the students will be provided a luxurious complimentary lunch, catered by none other than Jane. Once they are given a lesson on the history of film, hosted by John, the students will be allowed to watch some green screen filming. (Of course, Dave has chosen a low risk, tame scene. No language, no guns. A simple dialogue between himself and Karkat.) Afterwards, they'll be allowed to ask questions.

As Dave was in charge of the planning for this, being that, of the two twins, he's generally the better one with kids, he's also shelled out for free goody bags. Each child will be going home with free StriLonde Studio branded pencils, pens, and a sweatshirt (all bundled in a tote bag signed by both the studio's founders). The nature of John Egbert is such that the lecture's length is unpredictable. Everyone has simply agreed to follow his twenty minute warning, broadcast via walkie-talkie.

It is currently 2:30, give or take a few minutes, and the alert has come through. Staff are working to reset the scene, so that filming can begin as soon as the students arrive. As everyone waits, Dave and Karkat lounge on an out-of-frame sofa. The troll is nibbling on some carrot sticks, while Dave is chewing on some nicotine gum. Both have one arm around the other.

“Rose said this field trip was your idea.” The troll speaks first.

Dave nods eagerly. “Kids are funny little things,” he shrugs. “I don't know. I don't much mind ‘em.”

“You ever think about having kids some day?”

There's a thoughtful pause, during which Dave rubs his knees. Karkat recognizes this as a sign of nerves; often, if he's deep in nervous thought, he'll do this. “I dunno. I'd be too ‘fraid of fuckin’ it up, like my bro. I'm fine just waitin’ for my buddies to have kids, then rolling in as the weird uncle. You?”

“Well, first of all, I think you'd make a pretty fucking great parental figure. And I've always liked the idea of raising wrigglers. Or kids. Either.”

Dave nods. He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulling out a half-eaten bag of Skittles. He peers into it, brows furrowing, before shaking his head. “Fuck. You like the yellow ones? I ain't a big fan.”

“I can stomach those,” Karkat responds, offering his outstretched hand.

Dave proceeds to dump out the remaining candies, taking all the greens for himself. The grape flavored ones are split evenly, as both men enjoy them. “I think we have some ice pops in the freezer in the break room. I'm sure the kids'll want something to cleanse their damned palates after whatever John's dumped on ‘em. You mind running to get some?”

Karkat smiles. “You know, you could get off your ass and do it. But, nah, I don't mind.” He rises, going to get the described items.

 

By 4:00, the field trip is winding down. There's still filming to do, and the studio's day isn't anywhere near finished, but the cast remains idle until the school buses leave. While Karkat has spent much of the time in his trailer, he's kept an eye on what's happening. In particular, he's been taking note of Dave. The man is practically a kid, himself. He melds well with the young crowd, even going so far as to drop his usual enigmatic act. He's at the forefront of entertaining the crowd, telling stories of past films and his time in the film industry. It's endearing, bordering on heartwarming, to see a softer side to Dave.

And, at 4:30, when the buses have been loaded and are pulling out, and Dave enters his boyfriend's trailer, Karkat points his observations out.

“You said you don't think you'd be great with kids, but you were pretty fucking solid out there.” He takes a sip of his soda.

Dave, meanwhile, shrugs. “I mean, they ain't mine. I can ship them back to wherever they came from, and they'll have a dope story to tell their friends.” There's a beat of silence, followed by Dave rubbing his hand against his stubble-covered chin. “Y'know, not so long ago I wouldn't have let any field trips in, mostly to keep my condition out of the news. Its nice having the studio doors open again.”

“You're a different person when you're in front of a crowd, Dave,” says Karkat. It's not so much a comment as a neutral observation. “I'm not saying that's necessarily a horrible thing, but you're not the same person you usually are. You're more open, happier, even. I like it.”

“Never noticed. Is that just plain soda?”

Karkat shrugs. He shakes the can a bit, displaying the logo. “Red, original recipe Coca-Cola.”

“Oh. Sick. Can I have some?”

The troll passes over his beverage, watching as Dave clutches it haphazardly between the three functional digits of his right hand. It doesn't pass his attentions that he's getting used to the loss of function. “Chug it on down, you slimy bastard.”

Dave does as instructed, managing to empty what little was left. When he's done, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Kids seemed to have fun with the trip,” he comments, beckoning for Karkat to follow him outside. “I haven't hosted one in literal years, so I hope I didn't fuck it up.”

“Watching the looks on their faces, I'd say you did the exact goddamned opposite. I never would've guessed, Dave, but you're just good with kids. Maybe it's because your brain stopped maturing when you were, what, ten?”

“Eleven,” Dave counters, flatly. “Hey. Bend over. You've got something on your face.”

“Shit. Probably Dorito dust. Fuck you for introducing me to that bullshit.” Karkat leans over, only to be gifted with a swift peck on the cheek. He blushes.

Dave, meanwhile, smirks. “I lied. Although I'm pretty damned proud to be the one to show you what Doritos are. They're dope as fuck.”

“Tell that to Kanaya. She's scrubbing their spicy dust out of practically every article of clothing both of us has worn for the past three weeks. In fact, if anyone owes her a heartfelt apology, it's you.”

“For what? Enjoying some nice flavored corn chips?” Dave winks. He straightens his tie and wheels forward, ahead of Karkat. He turns rapidly, pivoting on a single wheel, and lands with a resounding thud and a slight bounce. “Hey, before we go back out there, film shots of ourselves wrestling one another and tryin’ to kill each other, I just wanted to say that... uh... I think you're a pretty rad dude, Karkat.”

The troll grins. “You're a goddamned idiot, the epitome of absolute stupidity, Dave. But I'll take that as the highest compliment from you, and say the same about you, too.” As he passes, Karkat runs his fingers through Dave's hair. It's something he knows the man doesn't mind; if he felt the slightest hint of resistance, or the smallest twitch of a muscle, he'd pull back. “Are we still on for later? We're going to Finnegan's?”

“That seedy little dive bar, the one John always gets food poisoning at?” Dave asks, now wheeling along at the same speed that Karkat is walking. He doesn't bother looking up, opting, instead, to simply cast an upward glance every now and then. “Yeah. Totes. I'll drive, you get slammed. ‘Course, that means that next time we go,  _you_ drive and I'll drink.”

A hearty laugh escapes Karkat. “That sounds like a fair deal to me. We can shake on it when filming wraps.”

“Oh. Fuck.” Dave shakes his head. “I almost forgot about that. They close at three.”

“We'll just have to try and take shit seriously for more than five seconds, then, huh? Get your shit together, you asscrack, and we'll be out of here before midnight.” From his pocket, Karkat pulls the last of the Skittles. He dumps them into his mouth, savoring the burst of sour flavor. “Thanks for the fruity crunch orbs.”

Though there's a flicker of grin in response to the obtuse candy name, Dave manages to keep a relatively straight face. “You're welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the short chapter! like i said, we're winding down. i might come back one day and add on, or make a sequel, but for now the story is reaching a natural conclusion. thanks for joining me on the ride! we still have a few chapters left, but probably not more than five. i want to make sure they're perfect, so they probably won't be back to back from now on! thanks for joining me on this ride!


	39. Special to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end, as told by snapshots of life spanning an ample amount of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [link to the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M-9arBm8pOk)

**27 March 2020**  
**Potential House #6**  
215 E. Lambert St.  
Landsend County  
Day 27 of filming

In theory, it probably would have been best for both Dave and Karkat to have simply stayed home after filming wrapped. Unfortunately for both men, they're not the best at planning, and the sixth home on their list of potential residences is open to visitors late into the night. Thus, after a three hour drive, they arrive around 8:00. They pull into a small gravel driveway, and are immediately greeted by a cheerful real estate agent. After somehow managing to convince the woman to leave them alone, they begin their investigation of the house.

On the outside, it's rather lovely. It's a one story Tudor style home, with a white plaster facade. Lovingly cultivated rose bushes line its front, while dark brown shutters frame the stained glass windows. It has a small porch, just large enough for two fully grown adults to stand, side by side, on it, which is surrounded by an ornate wrought iron railing. Six steps lead to the front door, and, of the two, Dave is the first to speak.

“Okay, so accessibility was a fuckin’ lie,” he huffs. He wheels up to the house, studying it for some alternate entry route. He notes that the real estate agent has bailed on them. “Fuck. Okay. So, what? This one's probably not going to be the best choice for touring.”

“Want me to video call you?”

“Yeah. I'm not risking my ass going up brick stairs.” Dave shrugs. He backs off, until his back is against the car, and gestures for Karkat to go inside. Seconds later, he receives the aforementioned video call.

“How tall is too tall for counters?” is Karkat's greeting. While the phone has been propped up against something, giving a view of the living space, Karkat is kneeling before the kitchen island. A tape measure is in his hands.

Dave, meanwhile, sighs. “Around twenty-nine inches is too tall for me, so... Yeah. I can tell we ain't keeping that kitchen. Drop the tape measure, dude.”

Doing exactly as instructed, Karkat simply leaves the tool on the floor. He scoops up the phone, and gives a full view of the living room.

It's nice enough, with hardwood floors and a cute little fireplace. There are a few built-in bookcases, and a television is mounted over the mantle. The way it's staged is terribly cramped, though, and the doors appear to be fairly narrow.

“I don't know. I like the old fashioned look, but this is edging on a depressing as fuck retirement home.” The phone moves in a way that seems to suggest Karkat is shrugging. “What're you thinking?”

“The stairs weren't a great intro. You want to just scratch this shit off the list?”

“Sure. Why don't we drop by Dad's restaurant? We'll get something to eat there. My house is a ranch style, so we can stay there overnight, if that's not a problem with you.”

“I'd be more inclined to do that if my boyfriend wasn't still talkin’ over voice chat while standing in full view of me, like a goddamned nerd.”

Karkat responds with a heart laugh.

* * *

 **28 March 2020**  
**“Skaia City Man Gets Life in Prison”**  
Headline and text from _Skaia City Scrambler_

Local long-time resident of Skaia City, Joseph P. Strider, has received a sentence of life without possibility of parole. In a remarkably short case, under the direction of prosecutor Terezi Pyrope, Mr. Strider was charged with multiple counts of abuse, assault, battery, drug trafficking, drug use, and violating parole. Deliberation of the matter took only ten minutes, and the verdict was unanimous.

Joseph P. Strider is a reclusive man, whose primary claim to fame is his association with Skaia City filmmaker, David E. Strider. While his lawyers argued that many of the charges brought against him were baseless, particularly those involving past child abuse, Ms. Pyrope presented compelling evidence.

* * *

 **4 April 2020**  
**Kanaya Maryam's Home**  
2012 Bottle St.  
Dunwall County

Rose Lalonde sits in an armchair, tea in hand, looking as proper as usual. Her brows are raised in a show of mild surprise, though a small smile graces her face. “Did I hear you correctly, Dave? You and Karkat have chosen a house?”

Dave, from his spot, sprawled out on the sofa, nods. “Yup. Smithfield Road. We've put the money down, paid in full, and we've got the construction-type work set up to begin in a week or so. Retrofitting it and all, y'know? Can't have my ass trying to roll up a bunch of stairs.”

“Yes, I'm not sure either of us could handle you breaking your spine for a second time,” Rose smirks. She twirls the small spoon in her cup about, mixing her tea, before chuckling. “Are you excited?”

“I think so. I'm also feeling like I want to puke my guts out all over the floor, so...” A small shrug punctuates this comment. “Is that excitement?”

“That sounds a bit like you might have contracted the stomach flu, actually. Or, perhaps, you're simply nervous. That's natural, Dave. You're advancing in your life, opening up to new experiences. That's always frightening. Personally, I think that you'll do wonderfully.” As she passes, Rose punctuates this with a playful tap on the top of Dave's head.

* * *

 **15 April 2020**  
**StriLonde Studios - Dave Strider's Office**  
Day 46 of filming

There's a loud thud as Karkat sets a large box atop Dave's desk. Immediately after completing this action, he folds his arms firmly across his chest. “My dad sent you more shit in the mail today, you fuckwit,” he announces, holding out a knife to break through the packaging's tape, “He spelled your name right, too, this time.”

“Shit. I hope it ain't more pickles. I still haven't managed to finish off all of the ones he already sent,” Dave mumbles, shaking his head. (In spite of his words, he's truly appreciative of the support he's received from Mr. Vantas. It's a welcome relief from his usual parental experiences; or, perhaps, it would be more appropriate to call it a complete lack of parental guidance.) After slicing through the tape, he pulls the plain cardboard box open. Inside, he finds a selection of seasonal barbecue sauces, some cookbooks, and a mix of small kitchen tools. In particular, he's received a pepper mill, a collection of assorted measuring cups, and a singular spatula.

“Oh. Hive-swapping stuff.” Karkat snickers. He pauses to think, then freezes. “Shit, we're going to be absolutely fucking drowning in whatever sort of absurd shit my dad is going to send us when we move to Landsend. I hope you like kitschy decorations, because he has _a lot_ of that. If you filled a room with his accumulated hoard of oddities, you'd die really, really goddamned fast, probably from a combination of asphyxiation and massive internal injuries.”

“To be real with you, I think it's kinda neat, actually.” Dave finds himself smiling. He carefully replaces some of the packing peanuts, and sets aside the gifts. “I've never actually had a parent who gave a literal shit about me. Closest I ever had was Rose, so, this is kind of sweet.”

The troll responds by rolling his eyes and gently shoving his boyfriend's shoulder. “You're going soft, you shitbird.”

“Eh. It happens,” shrugs Dave. With the tip of his thumb, he raises his sunglasses just enough for a wink to be visible. “You heard the rumors lately? ‘Lot of people are saying that Rose and Kanaya are closer to popping the question than an aquaphobe to the exit of Assville's 3D screenin’ of _Titanic_.”

“What sort of dark, loathsome hell do you pull these obtuse comparisons from?” Karkat shakes his head. Somehow, he manages to maintain a straight face, even as he supplies an answer to his own question. “Personally, my bet is on your refuse orifice.”

“Is that troll for anus? You sayin’ I pull what I say out of my own ass?” Though it's softened, the smile is still present on Dave's face. He takes a minute to readjust his position in his chair. As he does so, he fixes his clothing, ensuring that his pants legs are even and his coat is on properly. “If that's what you're throwing down, I'm gonna pick it up and say that, yeah, you're totally right.”

“Of course I'm right, you feces-stuffed pustule.” Karkat rolls his eyes. He fixes Dave's collar as the man moves. “I heard that you've made a decision on what to do with the mansion.”

“Yup.” The ‘P’ at the end of the word is popped for emphasis. “We're handin’ it off to the Nitram Foundation. Except for a few things that Rose and I will want to keep, includin’ personal shit and a few select furniture pieces, it's as is. Any sort of freaky crap we leave behind is free pickin’ for them. By the way, you wouldn't mind me snagging a pair of pinball tables from there, would you?”

“I'm not opposed to the idea.” Karkat buries his hands in his pockets. He knows that they'll need to finish filming before anything can really be done, but he finds that his excitement to embark on this new chapter of his life is growing with each passing day. There's an undeniable allure to the idea of living with none other than Dave goddamned Strider.

There's a brief moment, during which Karkat mulls over these thoughts, before he speaks again. “I'm getting pretty fucking hype for this. Are you?”

“The new place?” A pale hand, the ring and little fingers of which are at the mercy of gravity, runs through carefully mussed blond hair. “Yeah. I'd have to say the same. Contractors sent a photo, too, and the reno work is solid as shit. They've torn up those dumbass steps on the porch and replaced it with a ramp. Those shitty little suction cup handrails in the bathroom are out, rottin’ it the fuck up in a landfill, and they've put some actual ones in. Here. I'll, —” Dave taps at his phone screen, and a ring comes from Karkat's pocket a moment later, “—I sent you the photos. Take a look when we've got another break.”

“Fuck. Yeah. We'd better get back to filming before Sollux finally snaps and commits literal homicide.” Karkat laughs. He leans over, savors a brief kiss with his boyfriend, then straightens. He smooths out his coat and fixes his hair as he begins the journey back to the green room.

* * *

 **5 June 2020**  
**Full Pint Tavern**  
621 E. Leonard St.  
Skaia City  
Day 67 of filming

The air is a mix of joyous relief and bittersweet goodbyes. The final day of reshooting for _Study in Monochrome_ is complete, and the wrap party is in full swing. It began around 5:00, and it's still going strong at 7:00. Both alcohol and contact information is being freely passed out.

In the midst of this chaos, Dave and Karkat have lost track of everything but one another.

“First wrap party in years, and I'm spending it next to some grouchy little bastard alien,” Dave ribs his boyfriend, then suddenly switches tone. “I think it's gone pretty good, though. The whole reshoot was a financial nightmare, but some tight editing will make everything come together. And, ‘bout our plans...”

“I'll pack up all of my shit, you pack up yours, and we'll floor it to Landsend in the morning,” supplies the troll, He's grinning wildly, his heart pounding with pure anticipation. “I've got Sollux coming along, too, to help with moving furniture and all that. Rose and Kanaya have also insisted upon accompanying us.”

“And you expected something else from those two?” asks Dave, brows waggling. “Nah, they're comin’ along whether we want them to or not. We both already knew that, Karkat.”

“You're right as fuck.”

“Duh.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. He tries his best to act annoying, but he simply can't. Not now, not knowing what's to come. It's impossible for him to wipe the smile off of his face. He places his hand on top of the table, interlacing his fingers with Dave's, and relaxes. For once, everything is right with the world. He's happy, the future is bright, and he's surrounded by fiercely loyal friends. What more could a troll want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm absolutely floored by how much positive feedback i've gotten on this! thank you all so much for your support! i hope this isn't some sort of dumb, boring letdown ending, and we've got ONE MORE chapter before this wraps up. it's not ready, and it'll probably take about a week or two, but i promise that it's coming!


	40. Breakdown (A Long Way from Home)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand finalé of a long and winding road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it! Thanks so much for following me on this wild ride! This is my longest fic to date and I’m overwhelmed by the positive feedback! Sorry for the late update, I got a new job that’s full time and I’ve been juggling this with that. [here you go!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWA29X_RjKI) the last song!

**25 July 2020**  
**Skaia Museum of Modern Art**  
3405 East Bulwark Rd.  
Skaia City

Not surprisingly, the day of Rose and Kanaya’s wedding is a posh and exclusive event. It comes quickly and without relent. Every detail is planned, down to the last second, and nothing short of perfection will be accepted.

And, with all that planning, the day of the event goes without a hitch. Placards indicate where each guest sits, and a chalk-decorated sandwich board informs everyone that food is available to eat during the speeches. (On that topic, catering is being provided by the Crocker Corporation, closely affiliated with the Betty Crocker company, but not quite the same thing. Jane has led her best staff in preparing a variety of dishes, ranging from vegan sandwiches to good, old-fashioned, deep-fried chicken.)

By now, toasts have been made, speeches were given, and the ceremony has concluded. Now, it’s time to kick back and party. Both Rose and Kanaya have opted to have a traditional father-daughter dance; Dave stands in for his deceased father.

Obviously, it’s less conventional dancing and more odd maneuvering around a dance floor. It’s not something Dave is comfortable with, but he’s willing to put himself in the crosshairs of some playful ribbing for Rose.

As Rose leans over her brother, hands resting on his shoulders, she smirks. “Have you given any further thought to—?”

Dave rolls his eyes. “Didn’t we agree we ain’t talkin’ ‘bout this bullshit today?” Both his hands are free to move his chair, and he offers his sister a gentle shove. “This is your wedding, not mine.”

“Well, what about yours?” goads Rose. She waggles her brows. “Everyone is absolutely dying to know.”

“I’m thinkin’ about it,” Dave admits. “Now, shut up and just keep your focus on _your_ wedding.”

From Rose, a laugh. It’s like bells in the wind, soft and light, but resonant. “I look forward to when it happens.”

“How much are you getting from the betting pile?” Dave allows himself to be led by Rose. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. Dancing has never been one of his strong suits. “And don’t tell me it doesn’t exist, we all know it does.”

“You needn’t know such frivolous information.” As the song comes to an end, Rose pats her brother on the back. “By the way, David, have you noticed that Karkat hasn’t taken his eyes off of you since the festivities commenced?”

“I clean up well,” shrugs Dave. He inches back, allowing himself a moment in the spotlight before retreating back into the ebbing crowd. He elbows his way through the throng, until he finally locates his boyfriend.

 

Karkat stands before one of the many self-serve tables. He’s gotten himself some fruit punch, and set aside a bottle of Hardliner for Dave. In the low, atmospheric lighting, his red eyes almost seem to glow, reflecting light like the moon. Polished claws pick at a slightly lopsided tie, and strands of hair are already fighting against this morning’s thick coating of hair gel. “You looked good out there. I mean... not to give you even more ammo to load into your absurdly huge gun of incorrigible stupidity, but...” the troll’s voice trails off. He chews on his lip, watching closely as Dave takes his drink.

On the back of his mind, Karkat wonders what it would be like to see a golden ring on Dave’s finger. How would it feel to wake up one day, and know that he would spend the rest of his natural life with his longtime idol.

When the troll’s mouth opens, it’s unusually dry. His words come out harsher than usual, but there’s an innate softness to his tone. “Have you thought about what sort of wedding you’d like?”

“Oh, fuck, man, not from you, too,” Dave groans. In the most fantastic show of dramatic effect, he drapes his forearm over his face, looking as if he’s been pulled from some sort of overdone Renaissance painting. (Or, perhaps, Mannerism would be a more appropriate artistic movement to compare it to.) “Look, if you really want to know, weddings ain’t really my thing. I’d like it simple. Get hitched, maybe go on a little vacation to somewhere without a whole lot of beach.”

“So, if I understand what is dribbling from your food intake chute, you’re saying that you’d like to elope?” Karkat considers the idea. In a way, it fits Dave. It aligns with his more laid back style, though the concept of him eschewing the limelight is a bit odd. Then again, it’s a personal matter; Dave has never been one to share his private life freely.

“Sure. Guess you could say that.” A shrug, followed by a soft huff. Pale fingers comb through neatly styled, sleeked back hair. “What about you?”

“I don’t really care either way.” It’s a true statement in every sense. For Karkat, the real appeal of marriage—a concept that, by its very nature, is foreign to trolls and only now being integrated into their culture—is the sense of finality. Of course, divorces are a thing, but, in Karkat’s mind, he’d fight tooth and nail to stay together. It’s a sense of devotion, a promise. “I mean, this is all hypothetical... I’m just talking out of my ass, of course.”

Dave nods. It’s a slow, skeptical gesture, punctuated by a snort of laughter. He wheels forward, tucking one hand under his bouncing right knee as he closes the distance between himself and his boyfriend. “Don’t worry so damn much, you goddamn nerd.” He tugs at Karkat’s bright red tie, pulling him in for a swift kiss. “You act like I’d say no.”

“Well, would you?”

“What do you fuckin’ think, genius?”

After a momentary pause, Karkat concedes that his anxieties were unfounded. He relaxes. “Okay, but what about a ring? Would you want one? I know that’s the standard sacrificial offering prior to human betrothal, but I’m also going about as out there as a centimeter and noting that you’re not a standard issue human.”

“You’re not wrong.” Dave rubs his right hand against his chin, dragging the two nonfunctional fingers along his jawline. “Not really. I’d think it’d be a real liability with my chair and all that. I mean, you’ll do what you want, but I’d be okay without one. I’m guessin’ you, being the sap you are, would want one, though?”

“Yeah.” It’s an upfront answer.

Dave nods. He runs his fingers through his hair, then offers a wry smile. “I'll see what I can do, then.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Karkat inquires.

“What I mean is that I'm thinkin’ ‘bout it, you twit.” There's a wide, overpowering smile on Dave's face.

It's wider and brighter than anything Karkat can remember seeing. It fills him with a sort of glowing warmth, a sensation that settles at the bottom of his stomach, then radiates outwards. He mirrors the expression. “Hey, do you think Rose and Kanaya would even notice if we ducked out early?”

“We could blow this lemonade stand whenever we fuckin’ want, pal,” says Dave, raising his bottle into the air. “Cheers, dude.”

“You're right,” concedes the troll, clanking his own glass against Dave's, completing the toast. “So, what's pulsing through your thoroughly burnt out think pan?”

When the answer comes, after a few moments of thought, it's thick with an air of facetious mystery. “Just thinking about what it'd be like to have to put up with you for the rest of my natural life.”

”Oh? Your _natural_ life!?”

“I'll upload my brain to the cloud when I die, so the internet has to deal with my bullshit until its inevitable end, bro. You didn't know that? I'll be like if Disney actually didn't chicken out and got his head frozen. But, instead of freezing, I'll just let it make useless Tweets for the rest of eternity.” Dave waggles his brows. He reaches out, pulling Karkat in by the wrist, and showers him in affection. His fingers run through the man's hair, his lips trace his jawline, and his embrace is warm. “You know what? We've done what we've had to here. What do you say we split, duck into a local Jared's, and get hitched in the dark of fuckin’ night, my dude?”

Karkat laughs. “Are you insinuating that you want to skip out on the rest of your sister's wedding to get married to _me_!?”

“No, I'm doing it all to get married to Marilyn Monroe.” It's a show of his trademark deadpanning. Somehow, Dave keeps a straight face. “C'mon. Be spontaneous. Live on the edge.” With a gentle pull, Dave brings Karkat tumbling, into his lap. “Whaddya say?”

There's no hesitation in Karkat's voice, nor a single second of pause. “Fuck it. Let's go.”

“I'll text Rose.” From the bag on the back of his wheelchair, in all its omnipresent grace, he takes his phone. Karkat can see the text being sent—“gettin married to my boyfriend see you later”. Seconds later, he also reads the reply—“Wonderful! Have fun! I'll just be here, making out with my wife.” There's no effort on Dave's part to hide the messages, nor is there any attempt to cover his wild grin. “C'mon.”

Scrambling out of Dave's lap, Karkat bounds ahead. He feels pleasantly lightheaded, and he's not sure if it's just because of the alcohol, or if he's riding on a high from what's about to happen. Regardless of the cause, he's more than ready to face the future. He beckons to his boyfriend—his impromptu fiancé—calling, “Hurry the fuck up!”

As he wheels forward, elbowing through the crowd, Dave shakes his head. “I can only go so fast. I'm trying to avoid running down any people, here, so,” he sticks his tongue out. There's a giddiness in his movements, a lack of rigid posture, that he so often maintains purely for looks.

Despite the amount of people present, Karkat only sees Dave.

Both men race to their car. Once inside, they make the joint decision to ditch their formal attire. Ties are undone and thrown into the backseat, and jackets are tossed aside. Laughs echo in the vehicle, and an atmosphere of overwhelming passion settles between them.

In the back of his mind, Karkat wonders how it ended up like this. What's happening now is beyond anything he could have believed—beyond his wildest hopes. It's like a dream, an over-the-top insane ride he can't wake up from, and one that he doesn't _want_ to wake up from. It's everything he's always wanted, and nothing he'd ever thought he'd have.

Everything has fallen into place, and he's more ready to begin this new journey, with Dave by his side, than he's ever been for anything else in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully that wasn't too much of an abrupt ending. thank you all so much for joining me on this journey, and i'm just fuckin wild about how many people enjoyed it! i'm going to keep working on my other fics, but i may one day decide to drop in and leave an epilogue chapter or two. who knows? for now, this is the end, and thank you very much for following me to it!


	41. BONUS CHAPTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short look at the domestic lives of the Strider and Lalonde families.

When Karkat wanders into the kitchen, he finds his husband before the stove. His apron—a gift from Karkat’s father, solid black, with the Grubland logo emblazoned across the chest—is covered in unidentifiable mess. The counter is similarly trashed.

“What the literal fuck happened to the kitchen?” He tries to sound angry, but the sheer ridiculousness of it all prevents any convincing edge to appear in Karkat’s voice. “We just cleaned this yesterday.”

“Well,” Dave explains, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Rose sent me this recipe she thought you’d like. It’s a spicy barbecue quesadilla type deal, see. And I’m sure you’ll love it, so I was trying to surprise you. Didn’t actually expect you to pop out so soon. So, uh? Surprise?” He emphasizes his point with jazz hands, scattering globs of wet spice rub mix across the room. When a big hits Karkat on the face, Dave blushes. “Ah. Sorry.”

“Do you always have to be such a fucking messy cook?” Karkat tuts. He scrapes some of the mixture off of his face and tastes it. As predicted, he finds it to be firmly within the zone of things he’d consider delicious. “You’re lucky you’re not a chef. Your ass would be fired from every goddamned restaurant.”

“The good news on that front is that I sure as fuck ain’t a chef. I’m a move director.” When Dave backs up, his hands smear partially finished foodstuffs onto the wheels of his chair. It tracks a bit through the area, but there’s little worry about this; that’s why tile was installed. “Oh, and did you hear about Jade? She’s going to be rollin’ on out a kid. Adoptin’.”

“Really?” Karkat steps forward. He takes over mixing the rub. In one swift movement, he lifts the bowl from Dave’s lower section of counter to his, which stands at a standard height. “I’m counting eight quesadilla flatbreads, or whatever the fuck they’re called. I don’t understand how humans keep all their confusing food-based terminology straight.” The troll shrugs. When Dave isn’t looking, he pops a spoonful of the mixture into his mouth; then, he continues as if nothing happened.

Dave, meanwhile, takes the hint. He moves on, now beginning to prepare the mandarin orange and pecan salad. “Rose and Kanaya are coming over. It was supposed to be a surprise, so you better fuckin’ act surprised. And you didn’t hear nothin’ from me.” After a pointed look, Dave hoists the bowl of freshly tossed salad into his lap. From this spot, he covers it with foil, then pops it into one of the lower shelves of the fridge. “I can make salad, at least. Check that off the list.”

“Are you implying we have a list of things you can make like a passably normal person that’s actually longer than a singular item?” Karkat scoffs. “My fucking God, what’s the other thing? Toast?”

“Two of my fingers don’t even fuckin’ work, you insensitive bastard.” A playful shove accompanies this comment. “And, maybe, my skills lie elsewhere. I’d say I’m a pretty decent interior decorator.” There’s an air of palpably facetious pomp in these words.

And, as thigs go, they’re immediately shot down. Karkat gestures upwards, to the one-foot-long ceramic shark nestled in the chandelier. “You mean that?”

“It’s a reference,” Dave snarks, sticking his tongue out. “You simply wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand enough to know I married an idiot.” Karkat shakes his head. After assuring Dave isn’t looking, he downs another spoonful of the rub. “I suppose we should maybe change out of our hobo clothes, then.”

Dave looks down, eyeing his hole-riddled Skaia University sweatshirt. “It’s Just Rose and Kanaya. They won’t give a fuck.” He wheels forward, angling himself so that he brushes Karkat’s hand on the way to the bedroom. “I’ll change, though, since I’m sure that’ll make you feel fancy. You just like to show me off.”

“Well, you’re a good guy to show off.”

Dave grins. He rolls his shoulders, waves, and disappears into the bedroom.

 

When Rose and Kanaya arrive, they do so exactly two minutes late and bearing gifts of fine champagne and microbrew apple cider. Both are clad in matching pink attire. Rose wears a suit, and Kanaya is clad in a full-length dress.

The first of the women to speak is Rose. “Karkat has really improved your lifestyle, Dave. It doesn’t smell like absolute ass in here.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t stand that pathetic little look he gives me when I don’t clean up after myself.”

“You can’t stand at all, dear,” Rose hums. She musses Dave’s hair, which draws a light punch to the gut from her twin. “Are you really going to do this here?” she inquires, countering with a low but soft blow to the abdomen.

Dave, after acting as if he’s been absolutely winded, shakes his head. “Nah. We’ll save our death match until later tonight, once I’m drunk.”

“Wonderful, then I’ll have the upper hand.” There’s a pause in the discussion, during which Kanaya and Rose’s hands intertwine. The two men meander to the sofa and sit down, seeming to bask in the warmth of the roaring gas fireplace.

After some time, Karkat speaks. “I guess some things never change, then. I’ll have to figure out how to keep everyone from dropping dead of pure, unfiltered boredom.” He reaches underneath the coffee table, pulling forth a stack of Cards Against Humanity cards. They’re loose; from what he understands, Dave lost the packaging years ago. “It’s game time, idiots. The meat’s still cooking.”

The hands are dealt, and the first black card is read aloud. As this was Karkat’s idea, he serves as the starting Card Tzar. “What ended my last relationship?”

“Me,” volunteers Dave.

“JUST PLAY THE FUCKING CARD,” Karkat groans.

There’s a moment of quick shuffling.

Karkat scoops up the three plays. As he says one, he sets the card onto the table. “Well, what ended my last relationship was... A swift kick to the nuts. Unfathomable Stupidity, and Troll Will Smith. Well, clearly, we have our answer.”

Dave responds with a wide grin. The card is swiftly taken up, held between the two good fingers of his right hand. “Thank you very much, hubby.”

Kanaya scoffs. “You can’t just give your husband the card.” Regardless of her protests, she serves the role as the next Tzar. “Next from J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber Of...”

Another pause.

Again, the cards are laid out. “Two midgets shitting back and forth forever. Clearly, that’s Dave, so that doesn’t do.”

“FUCK!”

Ignoring the exclamation, Kanaya continues, “Michael Jackson. I assume Karkat didn’t have anything better to play. And, finally, the winner: Boobies.”

Rose plants a swift kiss on Kanaya’s cheek, then scoops up her prize.

“And What was that about not giving your spouse the card?” Dave snickers.

“It doesn’t count when all the other cards are simply bad.” A wry smile spreads across Kanaya’s face, and a shrug marks the beginning of a rollicking night of unparalleled stupidity.


End file.
